


Utility Belts & Elbow Patches

by captainkoirk



Category: Marvel (Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles x old people clothes 5ever, Emma Frost is better than your favourites, Emma Frost: HBIC, Erik x Coffee 5ever, F/F, M/M, Moira McTaggert: HBIC, Raven Darkholme: HBIC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkoirk/pseuds/captainkoirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik wishes being a hit man was half as glamourous as it's cracked up to be.</p>
<p>Maybe then he wouldn't be stuck crawling through a ventilation system at fuck o' clock in the morning on a Sunday, breathing recycled air and missing the tail end of that Criminal Minds marathon.</p>
<p>Erik makes a mental note to get a fucking TiVo. What kind of assassin doesn't have TiVo?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What All the Chic Cat Burglars are Wearing This Season

Erik wishes being a hit man was half as glamourous as it's cracked up to be.

 

Maybe then he wouldn't be stuck crawling through a ventilation system at fuck o' clock in the morning on a _Sunday_ , breathing recycled air and missing the tail end of that _Criminal Minds_ marathon.

 

Erik makes a mental note to get a fucking TiVo. What kind of assassin doesn't have TiVo?

 

…

 

It's Sunday again, years ago, and Erik is sitting on the veranda of Emma's chic apartment in the Italian alps. Erik is drinking black coffee, and Emma sips delicately at a café au lait.

 

"So this new contract you've taken. How're the hours? What's the pay?"

 

"…Odd and respectable?"

 

She arches a professionally threaded eyebrow. "Are you happy? Doing _this_?"

 

Erik hesitates. "I… I don't know. I guess I need to give it time."

 

Emma is admiring her manicure, but her voice is soft. "Do you think… that it'll ever be him that you do in? That one day, he'll slip up, and…"

 

Erik almost wants to console her. "Emma-"

 

"I want to be there." Her eyes lock on his, and her skin shimmers a bit. "I want to see Shaw pay, Erik."

 

And just like that, the look is gone. Emma gives a smile that doesn't reach her eyes and pats Erik's hand. "Odd and respectable is fine with me."

 

…

 

Erik drops out of the vent, black turtleneck and pants mingling with the darkness in the penthouse suite. The figure in bed bolts up immediately, reaching for what Erik assumes is a gun.

 

_"Who's there?"_

 

Erik can _feel_ the panic in the man's voice, and he wonders if said man gets off hearing it. From his wife. From his kids. From his _victims._ He's snapped out of his reverie when he hears another voice in the room, flattening himself against the wall.

 

"No one of consequence, old boy. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

 

The man crumples back into his mattress, and Erik watches the owner of the voice peel himself away from his position against the bathroom door and saunter towards the other side of the room, flicking on the lights as he goes. Erik freezes by instinct, and later he wonders how ridiculous he must have looked, pressed flat against the wall with eyes like a deer in headlights.

 

A deadly deer wearing a utility belt full of deadly shit.

 

The man standing across from him is _ridiculous._ He's sporting black cigarette pants, which Erik recognizes them to be part of Burberry's new spring line (an assassin learns to bide his time. This may or may not involve reading copicuous amounts of designer catalogues), and a _domino mask._ His black blazer is crisp, and the cut draws attention to his sharp frame, but there are _elbow pads._

 

_Elbow._

 

_Pads._

 

Is this what all the chic cat burglars, or what the fuck ever, are wearing this season?

 

"All that, coming from the man with a _Utility Belt_? Can't I add a bit of personal flair to my work clothes?"

 

Erik blinks slowly and dangerously (Not that many people would consider _blinking_ to be dangerous, but Erik can make it work). _Did he just read my mind?_ "Uh."

 

"I can't help it, really. You're projecting."

 

_"Who-"_

 

" The name's Charles Xavier, and I'm not a cat burglar, per se. You think you're the only one who has tricks up your sleeve?"

 

…

 

 

Erik isn't really inclined to move away from his perch in the corner of the bedroom, fiddling with his utility belt and watching warily as Charles measures a painting on top of the mantlepiece.

 

Charles waves a hand flippantly in his direction. "Don't let me stop you, though might I suggest you _not_ kill him-"

 

Erik bristles. "Don't you understand what he's _done-_ "

 

"I understand _perfectly. You're_ doing this _in spite_ of the fact this man is a bad person, not because of it." Charles pulls on a pair of latex gloves as he makes quick work of dismantling the painting from the wall. "You have _personal_ reasons for being in this line of work. You can kill _him_ and keep a clean conscience, but what if someone got in the way of your goals?"

 

Erik's voice is lower than he imagined it would be. _"What do you know about me?"_

 

"Everything."

 

Erik stalks over to the bedside, deliberately brushing past Charles as he pulls out his 22. and attaches the silencer. "I need you to wake him up."

 

Charles raises two fingers to his temple, and the man sits up abruptly, mouth frozen in a silent scream as he goes cross-eyed staring at the gun pressed against his forehead.

 

"Scream, and I will _not_ make this pleasant for you. I need answers. Where is Sebastian Shaw?"

 

…

 

Fifteen minutes later, and Erik is in a very, _very_ foul mood. He's no closer to finding Shaw than he was before spending a night groping around air vents and regretting not owning a TiVo, and the bastard fuck lying dead in front of him isn't making him _happy,_ no matter what he's telling Emma.

 

"My friend," a quiet voice reaches Erik's ears, and he turns around to find Charles lounging against the window frame, painting secure in a mylar bag. "killing will not bring you peace."

 

"Peace was never an option." The bullet casings pour into Erik's palm, shimmering as they rest suspended in mid-air before they crunch into an ugly, dull shape. Erik slips it into his utility belt and checks the room for any errors that _Charles_ might have made him cause.

 

Charles snorts, and slips onto the fire escape. Erik thinks he must have been projecting again, but he's too proud to join Charles as he climbs down the ladder, painting in hand, so he takes the air vents.

 

It's even less comfortable on the way out.

 

…

 

Erik sits on the Brooklyn bridge, hunched over a shot of expresso from his utility belt (he doesn't care what Emma thinks. It is _very_ practical, thank you _very_ much). Charles is a mutant, a _psychic,_ possibly even more powerful than Emma, and even though Erik met him approximately an _hour_ ago, he trusts him. Trusts him with _everything,_ and Charles says he knows _everything._

 

Erik is _fuming._ He can't remember anyone having the upper hand with him like Charles seems to. Not even Shaw. Emma is the sole exception, but Emma tends to be an exception to everything in Erik's life, so there's that.

 

It bugs Erik, how Charles gets to him like no one else has. It's not like Erik hasn't run into other people worked the underworld's nightshift on the job, but none of them ever acted so _infuriatingly,_ so _presumptuously._

 

Erik pulls his phone from his belt, glowering at the screen as he scrolls through Google entries on 'Charles Xavier'. He's amazed the guy _actually_ told him his _actual_ name, and what the connotations behind that might be, but there's plenty of articles to read through to distract him from that thought.

 

Charles comes from old money, and there's nothing indicating that he'd need to steal to get by. Erik scrunches his brow a bit more. Charles had said that he wasn't exactly a cat burglar, but Erik's heard it all before. And yet, there's no mention of a criminal record, either. Charles basically outright said that he was a Mutant, too, and there was plenty of online debates over his work. Scrolling through some academic resource sites, Erik skims some responses to Charles' research papers on the various waves of Mutant Equality movements. The guy seems smart, charismatic, and _handsome_. Erik does have eyes and a sex drive, and Google Images seems all too happy to assist him in his stalking. _Completely justified_ stalking. Stalking a psychic via the internet who claims to know everything about him is just a feeble attempt to level the playing field.

 

Erik bets that if Charles hadn't shown up (with his fucking _elbow patches_ ) he'd have caught the last _Criminal Minds._


	2. License To Kill/Be Juvenile

Emma seems to have tired of her latest boy toy, so she's giving Erik she would refer to as "an extended visit, because you have no fucking friends, _Jesus Christ_." The Williamsburg studio apartment isn't as nice as she's used to, but Erik knows she's had it worse. They _all_ did.

 

…

 

Erik is ten years old, with awkward proportions and just the wrong height. Shaw's grip on his shoulder is tight, and his smile is not a nice smile.

 

"Erik, this is Emma. Say 'hello', why don't you, Emma?"

 

"Hello."

 

Erik can't _talk._ His mother, his lifeline, his _everything,_ is gone, and the man who did it, _the man who killed her,_ is smiling like a benevolent uncle over his shoulder.

 

"Erik, it's _rude_ to keep the lady waiting." Shaw's nails begin to hurt, but Erik will _not_ speak.

 

"Hello, Emma." The words tumble out at their own accord, and Erik want's to shove them back in because he didn't do it, _he would never do what his man tells him,_ but there's a tiny, scared voice in the back of his head.

 

_Just listen to him, Erik. Please. For all our sakes, just do as he says._

 

Shaw's smile shows even more teeth, and the girl in front of him shrinks visibly. "Now, Emma. We can't have you helping Erik with _everything,_ can we? Why, if he can hardly _speak_ on his own, what _can_ we expect from him?" Shaw ruffles Erik's hair in a familiar gesture, but it lacks all the warmth of anything even remotely reminiscent of fatherly. "We're your new family now, Erik. We're like _you._ And you, my boy, are going to have to learn to trust us. Now tell me, have you ever fired a gun before?"

 

Erik will never forget the look in Emma's eyes as Shaw draws the Beretta and shoots her. Erik's mouth is hanging open in a silent scream, but the bullet ricochets harmlessly off Emma's suddenly crystalline, _mutant,_ skin. She's unharmed, but _trembling,_ and the set of her mouth is so resigned, so _broken,_ for someone so young. Shaw claps.

 

"My dear Emma, your reaction times are _much_ improved. Now Erik, why don't you try? I'd like to see what you can do with that _power_ of yours."

 

…

 

Emma is in the kitchen, making something pretty with the coffee machine. Erik only ever uses the Tassimo for black coffee, and the occasional expresso after a job, so Emma's really the only one who knows how all those buttons work. She mocks him for it _constantly._

 

"Honestly, Erik. You could take that machine apart, piece by piece, with your _mind,_ but you can't make a fucking caramel latte?"

 

Erik ignores her, passing her her mail. They tend not to leave a paper trail, but there's envelopes addressed to Emma from various Women's Shelters around the state, and Erik can't help but feel a little pleased that she listed him as her address, because Emma's one of the two homes Erik has ever known, snark and all.

 

The pair lounge on Erik's sofa, piled high with blankets and pillows from Erik's sleep the night before (it was never a question that Erik would be surrendering the actual bed to Emma. These things came naturally), absentmindedly watching the news. It's something about the Metropolitan, and Erik can hardly be bothered to pay attention. It's not like the body's even been found yet.

 

"Erik, are you happy?"

 

_"Emma-"_

 

"Shaw's all you think about. I mean, I want the bastard dead as much as you do, _you know that,_ but you never get out, never _relax._ "

 

_"I do so relax!"_

 

"Watching crime shows does not count if you're using them to pick up pointers. What I'm saying is, when was the last time you _met someone_?"

 

Erik scowls, glaring at the TV to avoid the question. The camera sweeps the foyer of the Metropolitan, settling on a reporter in an obnoxious blue suit jacket with heavy shoulder pads and heavier makeup.

 

_"It's the third of it's kind only this month, Louis! A mysterious benefactor has been anonymously delivering paintings to the Metropolitan by night. Crowds swarm the museum, hoping to find clues to the identity of the donor."_

 

The camera zooms in on the latest painting. A Dunouy, depicting the Paris landscape.

 

Erik recognizes it _immediately._

 

Standing abruptly, he grabs his leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses. "Quite recently, actually."

 

Erik can hear Emma sigh as he makes his way to the door. "Erik. Are you _happy?_ Doing _this?"_

 

"I don't know yet."

 

" _Erik-_ oh, never _mind._ Be a dear and pick up some groceries while you're out, why don't you?"

 

…

 

 

Erik loiters around the Metropolitan, hoping to catch Charles there. He feels very foolish. He's not even sure if Charles _likes_ him. Emma says Erik is terrible at first impressions. At least he didn't smile with teeth.

 

It's a very peculiar hobby, stealing paintings to give back to the public. Erik finds it quite endearing, and he hopes Charles doesn't _hate_ him. Erik grabs a pamphlet listing the anonymously donated paintings and prepares himself for an afternoon at the gallery.

 

Charles seems to be into French Romanticism, and works by Prudhon, Isabey, and Ingres. They all seem to be on the smaller side, and Erik thinks that despite his powers, Charles prefers good old-fashioned burglary.

 

Erik also thinks that Charles has good taste, apart from the fucking elbow patches.

 

 

 _That's kind of you, although I rather enjoy my elbow patches._ I _think they're_ groovy.

 

Erik's head snaps up, and he looks around wildly, disregarding the stares of the confused people around him. He scoots awkwardly through the crowd, trying to recollect physical details of the man he met the night before. Erik begins to realize he actually knows very little about the mysterious, charismatic Charles, who claims to know _everything_ about him, and it's a bit embarrassing. He gives up his fruitless search, hoping he's projecting disappointment instead of frustration. Because the truth is, Erik thinks Charles is _cool,_ elbow patches and all, no matter how juvenile it is. Erik thinks that offing some of America's worst full-time assholes gives him permission to be as juvenile as he wants, _thank you kindly._

 

He also can't stop thinking about how fucking _cool_ Charles is. Seriously, the whole 'art-thief-by-night-mysterious-benefactor-by-day' thing is all very Film Noir, and Erik feels like he's going through puberty all over again, even though he has that 'license to kill/be juvenile' thing going for him.

 

Hopefully he can bypass the sweaty palms and acne.

 

 


	3. Emma Frost's To-Do List

Emma sends Erik a little mental note informing him that she's going to be out for the evening, and to "get the groceries and get laid, jackass."

 

Well, there's _that._

 

…

 

Erik comes home bearing groceries, as requested. Groceries in the Lehnsherr-occasionally-Frost household aren't that alarming (assassin food choices hardly ever are, Erik has observed), with the exception of disastrous amounts of coffee. Erik's heard that stuff is addictive, and he only denies it because _does it really matter I can kill anyone with like seventy-five percent of essential household objects._

 

He wonders what Charles Xavier _really_ knows about him. 'Everything' means nothing, except for when it doesn't, and Erik is second-guessing himself about his judgement on this Charles character, already. Even if Charles is presumptuous, uppity, and _stupidly cool_.

 

He wonders if Charles knows about the coffee holder on his utility belt.

 

 

…

 

There's a silhouette of a man standing in front of the living room window, and Erik reaches for the gun in the back of his trousers on instinct. Naturally, he doesn't have it. _Naturally._ Erik considers relocating to Texas. The figure turns to face him, and Erik has to give himself a minute to take it all in.

 

Slim-fitting black blazer, black button up, black cigarette pants. How _chic._

 

Black leather gloves and a domino mask. How _professional._

 

Elbow patches. How fucking _Charles._

 

"Fancy seeing you again, Mr. Lehnsherr."

 

"You're in my house."

 

"Well, yes."

 

…

 

The pair are sitting in the kitchen. Erik is drinking coffee with a fair amount of giggle water mixed in to calm his nerves. Charles Xavier is _in his house._ Charles drinks nothing. It's not just the elbow patches, Charles is also a proud and true tea drinker. _Go figure._

 

"Would you like some coffee with that liquor, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

 

Well, Erik wouldn't have gratified that with a response, but his brain and his _other_ thinking-mechanism are having a bit of a disagreement at the moment, and what was meant to be a cold stare comes out as "call me Erik, please."

 

Fucking fantastic.

 

…

 

Erik thinks Charles smile is also fucking fantastic, holy _shit._

 

"I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, _Erik._ " He's rolling Erik's name off his tongue like it's interesting and _clean,_ with that neat Oxford accent of his, and fuck if that isn't the hottest thing Erik's ever seen. 

 

" think you have potential, _Erik._ I think _we_ have potential. There's more to you than you let on, I _know_ this. You're smart, you're capable, and deep down, you're essentially a good person. Together, _Erik,_ I believe we could accomplish our respective goals with more success than if we were working alone."

 

Erik always knows what to say to Charles, except for when he actually opens his mouth, but they can work with that, what with Erik being used to telepaths, and all. Truthfully, Erik's glad he's not running his mouth, even if he is a man of few words, because everything he _does_ say is often rude. With reason, because alongside Shaw, Erik's  looking for the writers of his life so he can get Emma to do something hilariously nasty to them. But just once, it'd be nice to make a good second impression, seeing as he botched the first one.

 

Charles leans in, looking earnest enough to be talking about investing in a puppy instead of a partnership in the art of killing and thievery. It's all very peculiar. " _Erik_ , I trust you. I wouldn't have sought you out today if I felt otherwise. You _know_ that. But I need you to trust me, as well."

 

"I would like to. To… to trust you."

 

"There is so much anger inside you, _Erik._ But there is also _potential._ Think of what we could achieve! I won't read you, _Erik,_ I promise you that. But in your own time, you are free to open up to me, if you wish."

 

Erik's toes are curling in his boots, because Charles is saying his _name._ There's a swarm of hot, red spiders crawling up his spine, but in a romantic way, not a disgusting way. Erik can't help but be short on romantic metaphors. It's not like he's had a lot of practice. He can feel the cutlery vibrating in the drawers, and he makes a mental note to get laid more often. Then maybe he wouldn't be freaking out over a guy he met a day ago. A guy wearing _elbow patches._

 

"You said you knew _everything_ about me, Charles."

 

"Truthfully, I was exaggerating. I know what you have subconsciously been telling me, as well as your _other_ telepathic friend, but I have not read your mind. And I never shall, not without your permission."

 

Then Charles lays a hand on top of Erik's, and things go in an odd direction from there on in.

 

It starts with a steak knife busting through the cutlery drawer and sticking up through the counter top. So there's that.

 

…

 

"Is something the matter, _Erik_?"

 

Charles is at it again, with Erik's name dripping out of his mouth like a ribbon, and Erik wishes it wasn't so easy to rub himself the right way. He leans in, and his voice is lower than he could ever remember.

 

_"Charles."_

 

…Yes?" Charles is breathless, and this is the first time Erik's gotten a good look at those _eyes,_ through that mask, and _hell_ if those aren't the most beautiful baby blues Erik's ever seen.

 

"Can you tell what I'm thinking, _right now?"_

 

"Yes."

 

"Then you only have to ask."

 

And for once, Charles is at a loss for words. His hand is gripping Erik's now, and he's staring at Erik with a challenging stare and a red mouth.

 

…

 

Charles likes to kiss, Erik finds that quite predictable, considering what a _nice mouth_ Charles has. It was less predictable when Charles grabbed Erik by the lapels of his leather jacket and practically dragged him over the small dining table into the said kiss. Erik's hands are scrabbling at the smooth surface, and he's beginning to worry that the whole thing just might tip over if they don't relocate _right the fuck now._

 

But then there's Charles' leather-clad hands in Erik's hair, living patchy pieces of heat lingering on his scalp, and that _feeling_ is something Erik wants _everywhere,_ if he weren't so enamoured with how Charles is sucking on his tongue, like _holy shit._

 

Another knife lodges itself in the wall beside Charles' head, and the pair take a hint.

 

 _"Erik,_ bedroom." Charles is saying Erik's _name_ again, and those eyes are practically just blown-out pupils, with only the tiniest slivers of sharp, _sharp_ blue.

 

Erik stands, shakily, fumbling with his boot laces as Charles leans back and catches his breath. His mouth is a hot, _wet_ shade of red and his pale, tapered fingers are tapping the tabletop in an unsure staccato.

 

 Erik wonders if he'll complete Emma's to-do list after all.

 


	4. Is Sebastian Shaw Quoting Star Wars?

Charles is straddling Erik's thighs, completely naked. His domino mask is scrunched up in Erik's hands as he grips the sheets, focusing on the lines of asymmetry in Charles' hair.

 

Completely naked. Except for those _gloves._

 

Those _fucking gloves._

 

…

 

Charles is _touching_ Erik with those gloves. It's maddening, the way he's pushing his palms against the base of Erik's cock with a subtle, knowing naïveté that is purely _Charles._

 

Charles is pulling quiet, desperate noises from Erik, ones he didn't know he could _make,_ not since-

 

_"Erik."_

 

Charles is doing _that_ again, what with Erik's name lingering on his tongue like something _delicious,_ and Erik just hopes his mind isn't leaking all over his pillows because of that leather-clad touch, that _friction._

 

 _"Erik._ Can you _trust me?"_ Well, that's hardly a fair question, considering the circumstances.

 

_"Yes."_

 

Erik wants to mark Charles the way Charles is imprinting himself on his consciousness. So he does.

 

…

 

Red marks are blooming on Charles' throat. Erik rasps over them with his tongue, relishing the shaky movements of the column of Charles' neck under his ministrations. Charles can make him lose it, so _very_ easily, and Erik wants to see what _he_ can do to Charles, wants to level the playing field. He fists a hand in Charles hair, pushing their foreheads together.

 

_"Yes."_

 

Charles _whimpers,_ and Erik kisses him again.

 

Charles gives himself to Erik wholly, which is so surprising, so _new._ When Erik fucks people, that's all it is. It's fucking. It's moving fast without any pressure, any _need._ Moving fast to get off, to get things over with. But then there's _Charles._ Charles, who Erik met only a day ago, who pushes him to the edge only to catch him again, who kisses like Erik is _everything._ Charles is pressed flush against Erik's chest, one gloved hand touching and stroking and pulling and _snaking_ insistently downstairs, the other gripping Erik's bicep with a need Erik was never able to find with anyone else, not even Emma. Charles is kissing and fucking his mouth at the same time, and it feels like something Erik wishes he could remember happening, even after-

 

_"Please."_

 

Charles is shaking, and the quirk of his mouth against Erik's is downright obscene, obscene enough to let Erik's brain short circuit without a fight.

 

_"Charles-"_

 

Charles cants his hips forwards, and _isn't that just the most interesting angle?_

 

"Say my name again, _please._ "

 

_"Charles."_

 

Charles makes a muffled noise, and _squirms_ in Erik's lap. Erik's stomach jumps a little-a-lot, and he's so, _so_ glad Emma convinced him to keep metal out of the bedroom, _holy shit._

 

…

 

Charles is beneath him, pushed into the mattress with one leg wrapped around Erik's waist. Erik has a hand braced against Charles' hip, the other gripping Charles' hand. He imagines the half-moons he'll find dug into the knuckles of Charles' glove, later. Charles' mouth is red like fairy tales, wet and curved and _warm_ against his jaw. Red like heat. Red like sins.

 

Charles can't stay _still._ He's arching his back crudely, digging his heel into Erik's back enough to bruise, with his free hand tugging at the short hairs on the base of Erik's skull as he scrambles for purchase. His mind is _frayed,_ reaching for Erik desperately and lazily at the same time, babbling incoherently in a series of images and half-words, colours and quarter-words.

 

If Erik were a lesser man, he thinks he would start crying.

 

He's really, _really_ glad he's not crying, because his crying face is downright terrifying. Bared teeth, and all that scary stuff. _Terrifying._

 

Charles laughs, right against his ear, and it's not like it's only the single most beautiful sound in the world, or anything.

 

" _Erik,_ you're projecting."

 

Erik would love to have the privilege of a witty comeback of two right about now, but Charles has to go and lick the shell if his ear like a fucking sex kitten, and wherever Erik's coherency thought it was going, it's been stopped in its tracks by the ten-gauge shotgun that is Charles' tongue. So there's that.

 

Erik changes his angle, and the tongue stutters, Charles lets out a low moan, _right against his ear,_ and drags a hand down Erik's back. Erik doesn't mind the catching nails, because he's thinking about the red marks he'll have tomorrow. He thinks loudly about it, too. Loudly enough for Charles to make a strangled sound in the back of his throat, before drawing Erik in for another one of his all-consuming kisses.

 

"I believe the benefits of this, ah, _partnership,_ have increased _significantly_ since my original pitch, _Erik._ " Charles mutters against Erik's mouth.

 

Charles comes first, with Erik's hands on his cock and his mouth eating up the lewd noise. Erik relishes it as he rides out his own climax.

 

…

 

Erik is sixteen, and there's blood and metal rushing through his fingers and through his mind. 

 

Shaw smiles, refusing to age, refusing to show mercy to the man begging at Erik's feet.

 

"Use the coin, Magneto." Shaw finds bullets to be too vulgar these days, at least for Erik. Erik drives the coin through the man's skull, with dry eyes and dry palms and a heart on fire. Shaw ruffles his hair again. Just like in the beginning, and Erik stomps the urge to throw up all over Shaw's designer leather shoes as he guides Erik over to the safe.

 

Emma handles the goons, leaving no fingerprints as she guns them down with their own weapons. Her face is blank. Shaw applauds her.

 

"Nicely done, Ice Queen. Azazel, away. Come back for Riptide after he's done." The documents in the safe have been replaced, but the dead man is staring at them. It stopped unnerving Erik awhile ago. Shaw's pet names for them never did.

 

From the safety of their vantage point, Erik watches Janos collapse the roof of the West wing of the mansion. Shaw has an arm over Erik's shoulder and a hand around Emma's waist. Emma still wears her diamond guise.

 

There's four of them, including Erik. Four mutant children. They never really talk about themselves. Azazel, Janos, Emma, and Erik only know fear and hatred, and it consumes them. Erik used to cry at night, and Emma would hold him, stroking his hair. The first time Shaw had him kill for profit, he had cried, and Shaw had only smiled, like the woman's blood on the carpet was worth whatever was in that safe. And Emma had held him.

 

Erik doesn't cry anymore, but Emma and him still spend their nights together, dangerous and planning in silent. Azazel and Janos wonder about them, about Erik and Emma sharing a thin cot and having secret conversations, but it's only a matter of time before they let them in. Let them in on Emma's dangerous plot.


	5. Platinum Candy Wrapper

Erik wakes up the next morning, feeling satisfied and untroubled. Overall, it's a rather weird combination of feel-good feelings, and it's all quite unfamiliar. The spot on the bed next to him is empty, but it's warm, and Erik can smell coffee brewing in the kitchen.

 

…

 

Erik sluggishly makes his way to the kitchen area, finding Emma perched delicately on a stool, sipping a cafe au lait with her pinky up. Charles is sitting across from her, enjoying a cup of tea, which is weird, because Erik can't identify anything in the kitchen that isn't the Tassimo or the knives, and Emma doesn't drink coffee.

 

Which means she must've brought some for the morning.

 

Erik doesn't give her enough credit.

 

Emma's eyes are twinkling with amusement. _Twinkling. And she isn't even in diamond form, what fresh hell._ Charles is smiling that red, crooked smile of his, and they must be having some special psychic conversation, because Erik doesn't get the joke. Erik shuffles lazily over to the coffee machine and inserts a T-Disk. Charles perks up.

 

" _Erik_! There you are! We didn't want to wake you-" And there Charles goes with the gooey name-saying, all over again. Erik wonders if it's really just him.

 

"Don't wear your boots inside, it'll scuff the floors, and you'll eventually need to sell this place." Emma smirks. "Even if you _are_ in a… rush."

 

Charles goes bright red, and Erik, in all of his content morning glory, forgoes the the obligatory denial and just looks smug.

 

…

 

The table isn't really meant for more than one, but the three of them make do, bumping elbows as they help themselves to some scrambled eggs Erik made while sitting down, manipulating the oven dials and saucer from afar. Emma is generous enough not to call him a show off as Charles applauds the trick.

 

Emma daintily pats her mouth with her napkin as their meal draws to a close.

 

"Charles has explained the nature of your agreement to me in detail. I find it to be suitable for both parties, and am happy to accommodate. Having a telepath with you in the field as well as at the desk would guarantee absolutely no miscommunications."

 

Erik nods sagely, trying to look professional. Charles has a hand on his knee. So there goes that notion.

 

Emma tucks a blonde curl behind her ear. "Erik, I don't mean to... excite you, but I may have a potential lead on Shaw's whereabouts."

 

Erik opens his mouth to protest, _he hasn't explained the nature of Shaw to Charles, yet._ It seems like something that would have already happened.

 

Emma stares at the table, her posture unusually rueful. "I told Charles about my past with Shaw, and how I came to be in his… _possession._ Your story is yours to tell in your own time, and I did not disclose it, but I have shared what I myself felt was necessary to disclose with such a close associate. But Erik, I assure you, I did not betray your trust." 

 

Despite her polished speech, Emma's voice shakes a bit, and Erik quashes any anger he might have felt. After all, Emma's _right,_ isn't she? Shouldn't Erik let himself open up to Charles? The hand on his leg stutters.

 

"Tell me about the possible lead." Erik tries to keep his voice level, but it's probably useless. He's having breakfast with _telepaths,_ and he's trying to hide his feelings. Charles promised not to pry, but he can probably still read him like an open book when Erik's busy concentrating on not making the forks dance.

 

"I've been courting someone inside the CIA. She has a past with Shaw, and she knows how he's out of reach of federal jurisdiction, he's just too _smart._ She intends to see him taken down by any means necessary, and she has access to files that could help us out."

 

Erik blinks. A suitor with a mind and ambitions? Emma usually settled for those who substituted brains for cash wads and sports cars, getting away with a considerable amount of money, enough to keep her in the style to which she has become accustomed, at least, while her former beau can't remember a thing.

 

"Who's the lucky lady?" Charles pipes up. "Will we be meeting her?" Despite Charles' relaxed demeanour, the hand on his leg is still hesitant, and Erik rests his own over top of it. He still doesn't know what he wants to _do_ with Charles.

 

Emma rolls her eyes. " _Charles!_ I thought you understood the nature of most of my… _relationships,_ as it were."

 

Erik feels warmth trickle down his cerebellum as Charles settles down. It's the most _pleasant_ feeling, and Erik can't help but wonder what Charles could do if he just _let him in._

 

"Well, _I_ think she's more than that, but whatever you say, Emma."

 

Emma brushes non-existent dust crumbs off her skirt and rolls her eyes. "How _droll._ "

 

But there's a hint of pink dusting her pale cheeks, and Charles smiles victoriously.

 

The Ice Queen, _blushing and bickering._ Erik thinks if Shaw could see just how _wrong_ he was about Emma, he'd have a heart attack. And that makes Erik very, _very_ happy.

 

_There's more to you than anger._

 

Erik recalls what Charles told him the first night they met. He wants Shaw to be wrong about him, too. To be wrong about _everything,_ because Erik doesn't feel as _empty_ anymore. Watching Charles and Emma tease each other, Erik hopes Emma won't ask him if he's _happy_ again, because even with Shaw alive, he just might say yes.

 

…

 

 

 Erik manipulates the bullet through the lawyer's head with sharp precision. He's _good_ at his job. It's not exactly a point of pride, considering the fact that the man that taught him these skills was a _huge dick,_ on top of being a murderer, manipulator, and all-around _huge fucking dick._ Erik gathers the traces of the bullet and stores them in a pouch in his utility belt. He examines the cadaver, eyes burning. This man was Shaw's head lawyer, back in Erik's time. Erik wonders how many wills ended up dousing Shaw with even _more_ buckets of cash, how many murder cases weren't seen through, because of a pudgy corpse in an Armani suit.

 

There's a safe tucked inconspicuously between a bookshelf and a plush chair. 'Inconspicuous' meaning there's a little lace table runner on top of it, boasting a tumbler of whiskey and a bowl of stale almonds. Meaning it looked really, _really_ out of place, and clearly contained something important. Erik lets his curiosity do it's thing.

 

Charles pops his head out of the bedroom, carrying a painting and a smug expression. "Look, _Erik_! It's an early Vienot. How lovely!" He glances over at Erik, noticing how fixated he is on the safe. " _Erik?_ "

 

Erik has to fight to ignore how his name sounds, even now, when Charles says it. "Something important is in there, I can feel it. This man used to be Shaw's _head lawyer_. He might have original copies of the wills Shaw had counterfeited…"

 

"You can open it, right?"

 

Erik frowns. "Maybe. When I'm not angry, my powers are… crude, at best."

 

Charles scowls. "That's not true There's _more_ to you than anger, Erik. It doesn't have to be the driving force for your powers."

 

Erik tries to peel back the thick hunk of metal serving as the safe door. It feels over a foot thick, and the metal just isn't singing to him. Erik lets out a shaky breath. Christ, he already feels _tired._

 

Charles places a hand on his shoulder. "I find that focus, _true focus,_ lies between rage and serenity. If you like, I could… help you find such a memory, if you were comfortable."

 

Erik remembers how _good_ it feels when Charles touches his mind. It's not _that_ much prying, and Erik at least owes him this.

 

…

 

The memory is _sensitive._ Erik couldn't be older than eight, and he's seated at the dinner table with his mother and father. There's no talk of his father's job, one Erik would fail to understand until much later. It's just him and his family. His mother helps him to light the Menorah, holding him tightly while his father looks on adoringly. Their house is by no means extravagant, but it's completely home, and it's all Erik could ever have wanted in that moment.

 

…

 

The front plate of the safe peels back like a candy wrapper. A foot thick, platinum candy wrapper. So there's that.

 

The safe is filled with unsealed envelopes, carefully preserved in mylar bags. Charles is grinning with pride, and stand on his toes to whisper in Erik's ear in a manner that is _completely unnecessary._

 

"Didn't that feel _right?_ "

 

Erik wonders if screwing Charles over the safe of a dead man would get him sent to Hell in a hand basket, if he didn't already have a one-way ticket.

 

He settles for some fun in the elevator, because the previously deceased Rick Roberts was the kind of person who'd have an elevator going straight to his bedroom. Asshole.

 

…

 

Charles throws his head back against the mirrored walls of the elevator, fisting a hand in Erik's hair as Erik kneels in front of him. He makes a keening noise, far in the back of his throat as Erik swallows him whole. Erik licks him from base to tip, and Charles' knees almost buckle. Erik pushes his palms against Charles' hip bones.

 

The papers are strewn all over the elevator floor, and Erik feels a sick, twisted kind of pleasure in it.

 

He is _so happy._


	6. Winning Side of the Tracks

Erik is seventeen, and his world is changing.

 

Shaw has begun to suspect fowl play, and he's given them inhibitor collars. As if he needed to control another facet of their existence. Erik and the others start to worry, but then there's Emma. There's _always_ Emma.

 

Emma wears her collar like a diamond necklace, with her head held high and full to the brim with hatred and ideas of revenge.

 

Erik sleeps in Emma's bed, fully clothed with his head against her chest as he listens to her heartbeat. Azazel and Janos have stopped wondering, now that Emma's told them. Told them of their _plans,_ for escape, for _revenge._

 

"He _knows._ " Erik's hands rest on Emma's collar. The metal is dull and cold.

 

 _It is of little consequence. We're getting out, with or without the help of our abilities._ Emma's heartbeat is even and slow, and it lulls Erik into an uneasy sleep, filled with dreams of a father he thought he knew

 

…

 

Erik is fifteen, and his world is changing.

 

"Tell me, Magneto. Who did you think your father was?"

 

Shaw has summoned Erik to his office. The question catches Erik off guard. Shaw has never mentioned Erik's family before. As far as he was concerned, this was all Erik needed. Erik wants to hope that this _means_ something, something about his father, but Erik has been pretending to cease to hope since the gunshot rang through the room and his mother's body crumpled to the ground.

 

"It's rather rude not to speak when spoken to. But then again, I suppose you really don't know _anything at all_ about Jakob Lehnsherr." Shaw smiles, like it's just teasing, but it's just the corners of his mouth turning upwards in another cruel game.

 

Erik stares at the ground. Everything he could say, could _do,_ would be like further entangling himself in the barbed wire around his neck. He hopes this is enough, hopes Shaw doesn't expect him to answer. He already anticipates the verbal humiliation and torments he knows will come, a tool to bend and break him and children like him.

 

"I suppose you're old enough to understand, Magneto. Ice Queen can't hold your hand this time."

 

Erik's face burns, and he can almost _feel_ the muscles of Shaw's face as they shift into a grin.

 

"Jakob and I go way back, before you, before his _wife._ " The word is scraped off his tongue like something sickening, and the metal in the building's supports sway a little with Erik's posture. Shaw chuckles.

 

"Touchy, touchy. You _really_ must learn better manners. Now where was I? Ah, yes. Before _Edie_ came into the picture. Jakob was your age, and I was hardly recognizable. Funny thing, time. Jakob had been alone. Alone and _talented,_ and I could see the makings of a _man_ in him. He had skills such as yours, a _touch,_ if you will, for reaping in the benefits of life that the law prohibits _ordinary_ men from acquiring. But like myself, I considered Jakob capable of operating _above_ the law, even if he was a lowly _Homo Sapien._ In those days, it mattered not. Talent was talent, and I needed a playing piece."

 

Shaw's hands form a steeple, and he leans forwards, eyes bright and unfriendly.

 

"I came to value Jakob. First as a pawn in my games, later as a _son._ As he grew, so did my trust in him. I myself did not _grow,_ per say, but time is fickle with the _Homo Superior,_ upon occasion. And so, Jakob was no longer a son to me, but a _brother._ "

 

Shaw's voice cuts into Erik, indifferent and severe all at once. "Then came _Edie._ "

 

The mention of his mother in a tone so distasteful, so _repugnant,_ has Erik standing to attention, meeting Shaw's stare as insubordinately as he dare. Shaw rolls his eyes at the gesture of defiance.

 

"Don't be so _sensitive,_ Magneto, honestly. You're such a _sniffling, snotty mess_ at times, it's really quite unbecoming. I can't imagine _how_ the others put up with you. But back to _Edie._ Jakob was _sick_ with her, always coming and going at odd hours, buying properties and identities and _changing himself,_ all for _her_. He'd speak of crazy things, of _quitting the business_ to take up an 'honest' living. Why, he even changed his name! Frankly, _I_ thought _Eisenhardt_ was a much nicer name than _Lehnsherr,_ but Jakob was no longer _listening._ This is why I keep _you_ on a much, _much_ shorter leash, Magneto, and _you're_ turning out just _dandy,_ apart from all of that snivelling _nonsense_ you're prone to. But you're growing up, I suppose, and I'm seeing less and less of that, and more of _you._ More of that _anger,_ that _drive,_ That our Jakob was sorely lacking. I think, Magneto, what I'm trying to tell you is that I _value_ you, and perhaps, if you keep growing up on the _winning_ side of the tracks, you could be like more of a brother to me than your father ever was."

 

Erik doesn't _know_ what the churning in his gut is. It's like a knife, turning and twisting, and there's a _monster_ in him _roaring._ Shaw looks nothing short of downright pleased with himself. The building's supports are starting to _warp,_ and Erik just wants to _wreck it all,_ but then there's Emma. There's _always_ Emma. Emma, asleep in a room downstairs, and Erik doesn't want to hurt her. Even Janos and Azazel, he has grown to _care_ for, in his way, and they've become entwined with a plot running deeper than just a feeble plea for freedom. 

 

Erik _loved,_ no, _loves,_ his parents, just as he has come to love Emma and the others, no matter what Shaw would like him to pretend. He _knows_ this, and he's not going to crumple the building like Shaw crumpled his family before, never _again._ Erik is going to hold on.

 

The building stops shaking.

 

Shaw smirks, like he could see the patterns behind Erik's eyelids before they even happened. "So much anger. So much _power._ Anger is the key to your abilities, Erik. Surely, you understand why they had to _die._ I've seen the errors of working with _mere humans._ You and the others, you have so much more _potential._ That's why Jakob had to go. That's why _Edie_ had to go. It's quite poetic, really. When I sought out Jakob, he'd hidden you and that _woman._ He claimed he wanted _more_ for you, he wanted you to grow up _right._ But it's _much_ more fun to grow up _winning,_ that's what _I_ say, and now look at you. Without _them_ around, you're so much _more._ More than what products imperfect evolution could ever give you. If Jakob could see you now…"

 

Shaw trails off, and the smirk widens. "Well, that's enough of our little _bedtime story,_ Magneto. I hope you'll think about what I've said."

…

 

 

Emma arrives early on Saturday evening, carrying a cream dress in a dry cleaning bag and a pair of Repetto heels in the other.

 

"You're to meet her tonight. Wear something _decent,_ please, the both of you! No elbow patches, and no turtlenecks. _Really._ "

 

Charles' feet are resting in Erik's lap as they share the sofa, watching _Seinfeld_ reruns. It's all sickeningly domestic, and Erik can't help but let his mind sit dormant in the present, faraway from thoughts of _Sebastian Shaw,_ The man who controlled his every move even after he stopped controlling him.

 

Charles waggles his eyebrows in Emma's direction. "Afraid we might _embarrass_ you in front of your _date_?"

 

Emma scoffs as she makes her way to the bathroom. "You are disgustingly juvenile for a man in elbow patches, Charles. You already _know_ the limits of my 'feelings' for her."

 

Charles stretches over the arm of the couch, toes curling in the fabric of Erik's pants. "And _I_ think _you're_ trying to act _cool._ "

 

…

 

They get reservations for Asteroid M, one of those chic little asian-fusion restaurants where they cook the food right in front of the bar.

 

Moira is not Emma's usual type. Her clothing is simple but elegant, suiting her lanky proportions and slight bust. Her hair lies flat, brushing her shoulders, and she wears little makeup. She's enthusiastic and clever, gesturing with her fork as she talks about a variety of subjects with a spark in her eyes sorely lacking from Emma's previous conquests.

 

Charles takes an immediate shine to her, and Erik can't help but hope she's more than a conquest.

 

Emma sits up perfectly straight, her wrists resting against the edge of the table as she eyes her papaya salad. Moira keeps glancing over at her fondly, picking at her noodles in a way that looks a bit heartsick.

 

Of course, the only reason Erik is paying such particular attention to Moira is because Charles is playing footsie with him, and he'd rather the cutlery stayed dormant. _Really._


	7. Absence of a Plural

At Emma's request, Charles forgoes the elbow patches. He's wearing a smart, double-breasted suit jacket in navy blue, with fitted slacks and black brogues. He decides against a tie, leaving his neckline exposed under a crisp white shirt. Erik himself is sporting a textured grey blazer, fitted at the waist and paired with a thin white tie, sharp against his black shirt and trousers. Emma made a small noise of approval when they'd presented themselves to her earlier, looking too beautiful by a half in a Jenny Packham baby doll dress in white silk and a pair of white leather Repettos.

 

Erik thinks Emma is trying awful hard to impress her date, if she's getting _him_ to try and look fashion-forwards.

 

He'd keep that thought to himself, if Emma hadn't already heard it.

 

 

So it's dinner, then. Dinner with killers and mutants and a metal bender and psychics and a human and a CIA agent. It's dinner, and the pan-fried bread goes well with the pork dumplings, even if Emma wrinkles her nose when Erik orders seconds.

 

It's the deep-fried bananas in chocolate sauce that do Erik in, in the end, because it's beer batter and a smart white plate and Charles' red mouth, _chocolatey_ red mouth.

 

…

 

So it's bar hopping, then. Bar hopping with killers and mutants and a metal bender and psychics and a human and a CIA agent. It's bar hopping, with martinis as dry as Erik's mouth when Charles _looks,_ with Moira's hand on Emma's thigh under the table, and Emma not moving it even though she's not the drunk one.

 

Erik gives Charles an education in vodka shots, and things go downhill from there.

 

Or maybe it's uphill.

 

Maybe it's flat terrain.

 

Maybe it's smooth sailing.

 

…

 

Charles and Erik are sitting on top of the slide, legs dangling dangerously over the edge of the jungle gym. Emma is laughing on the swing set, because Moira is swinging so high, so _very_ high, and her feet can touch the oak tree in front of them. It's weird, watching Emma just be herself with someone else.

 

And apparently, they acquired a balloon somewhere? Because Charles is beating it against the side of Erik's head as he informs him exactly why a lion would lose a fight to a kangaroo, and Erik has a fleeting thought in which he thinks assassins should be grown-ups, because Erik always _had_ to be grown-up, and he also thinks he's going to be very morose very soon if he doesn't _stop with the thinking._

 

"Because, _Erik,_ a kanga-roooo… has…has-a tail! Kangaroos have legs! We-ell, leg-tails. It's big… and they use them to _kick._ Not the tails, the legs-but the tail is like a leg, but not because it _kicks,_ because it stands. And the legs kick. But not like tails. And they have big feet!"

 

"To kick with." Erik adds, nodding sagely. It all makes perfect sense, really. "Kiss me. Lots. _Please._ I'd like that."

 

It's a park, after dark, and it's a place for making dangerous mistakes and leaving fingerprints and faces, and Charles is kissing Erik against his open mouth, sloppy and wet.

 

"I guess I'll be spending the night at Moira's, then?" Emma calls from the swings, twisting back and forth in her seat while Moira looks at her with a big, stretchy grin a tad reminiscent of a kid on Christmas morning.

 

…

 

Erik isn't usually the type to get drunk, what with the 'tracking down a menace to society whom he hates with the passion of a million burning suns when he's not killing international level assholes for profit and satisfaction', and all that. But then there's Charles, lying on Erik's bed with his neck peeking shamelessly out from under his collar, and Erik's hatred for Shaw simmers down to the heat of only a thousand burning suns whenever he's with Charles, so there's that.

 

Charles reaches up, curling his index finger under Erik's collar and dragging him down for a kiss. The alcohol in his system makes Charles taste like _fire,_ and Erik lets himself be tugged onto the mattress by his belt loops as Charles hooks a leg around his calf.

 

…

 

Erik is completely convinced Charles is _perfect_ at sex, and nothing will convince him otherwise. Not when Charles is joined with him at the hips, hands, and mouth. Not when Erik is _extremely_ buzzed, and Charles is arching up to meet him as he braces his heels against the end board of the bed. Not when Charles' teeth are catching against his bottom lip _just_ like that.

 

Erik is losing track out of the things he's thinking and the things he's saying out loud, but it doesn't matter because he's pouring the contents of his head into Charles, because he _wants to,_ and because letting Charles just _take_ feels fucking amazing.

 

"I want to let you _in._ "

 

Erik's head is a bit fuzzy, partially from the alcohol, and partially because he's just lets his thoughts leak _everywhere_ wherever Charles is concerned. He _thinks_ he said it out loud, and he's not sure if the words tumbled out or were dragged up his windpipe because he _wants_ to, wants to let Charles in, and because he _doesn't want to,_ because Erik Lehnsherr has a duty to avenge the death of his family, of other families, of his past, his _future,_ and why are decisions so _hard._

 

Charles takes Erik's face in his hands and kisses him like he's made out of glass, and Erik's chest _hurts._

 

 _"Erik."_ Charles is combing Erik's hair back with his fingers, and kissing him _all over._

 

_…_

 

Erik wakes up with a warm body curled around him, which is extremely nice, but then the pounding in his head starts, and the taste coating the roof of his mouth makes a debut.

 

Erik is hung the fuck over, but Charles has begun to stir, his arms squeezing tighter around Erik's waist as he opens his eyes.

 

"I feel fucking awful." Erik groans, trying to recollect bits and pieces from the night before.

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

_…_

 

Charles looks rueful as he stares at Erik's (only slightly) horrified expression.

 

"Charles."

 

" _Erik-_ "

 

"Last night. Did I… did I tell you _everything_?"

 

Charles looks like his heart is about to shatter, and Erik wants to run and hide, but Charles' eyes are huge and _sad,_ and Erik just wants to give in. He starts rambling.

 

"I mean, it's not that I don't _want_ to, there's just a _lot_ of… of _variables._ Variables. Like Shaw. And I can't just _stop,_ he has to pay for all the things he's done, to so _many_ people, and I want to let you in, but then there's _him,_ and I have to finish what he started, I promised Emma he wouldn't hurt any more people, and then you came, and then I got a lead on him, and-"

 

"Oh, _Erik._ "

 

Charles' voice is warm, and Erik just wants to wrap himself in it and give in, but he _can't_.

 

"Last night, you were pouring yourself into my head… I heard things. I heard some things about Shaw, about what he's _done._ When we first met, I told you that killing wasn't the key to your happiness, that there was _more_ to you than anger. Even though Shaw's no longer pulling the strings, he's still _controlling_ you. Erik, of _course_ he has to pay for the things he's done, just like all of your other hits, but don't let it stop you from _living._ Erik, you deserve to be nothing but _happy,_ and don't let Shaw being _alive_ get in the way of that. He needs to be finished, there's no denying that, but _your_ reason to be shouldn't end when his life does."

 

Erik stares, because this isn't what he was expecting, not what he was _raised_ to expect from anyone. But then there's Charles, and Charles and Emma just want Erik to be _happy,_ regardless whether or not Shaw's in the picture, and Erik's head is _pounding_ right now.

 

Charles is tentatively edging out of the sheets, looking like he's crossed a line. Erik hauls him into his lap without warning. He can't really _vocalize_ right now, not with epiphanies in the light of hideous hangovers, but he's kissing Charles sloppily, letting his thoughts fan out.

 

"Can I… tell you? About myself? Out loud?" Erik's talking against Charles mouth, and Charles has his arms around Erik's neck.

 

"God, _yes._ Of course you can, _Erik-_ " Charles rests his hands on Erik's shoulders and pries their mouths apart. "You taste awful, and I can feel your headache from here."

He pushes Erik back into the mattress, hands wandering over Erik's chest. "You should get some _sleep._ I'll go out and get breakfast, then we can shower, then we can talk."

 

Charles is rubbing soothing circles on Erik's stomach, and Erik lets his body sink into the bed, a lazy half-smile forming on his face.

 

"Yeah. I'd like that, Charles."

 

Charles kisses him on the corner of his mouth before leaving, and it's just as promising as the absence of a plural when the shower was brought up.


	8. Ugly-Crying-Face-Minus-Actual-Tears #12

Erik wakes up, feeling refreshed and untroubled. For the first time in a long time, he feels at _peace,_ even with the knowledge that Sebastian Shaw is still alive.

 

Naturally, this is when things fall to shit.

 

…

 

The balloon from the night before is bobbing gently in the corner of the ceiling, and Erik is glowering at it with enough force to shatter Emma's diamond form. The clock reads four in the afternoon, and Charles is _nowhere_ to be seen. Erik's first assumption is that Shaw's behind it all, and that Charles has been kidnapped and that the world is _ending._

 

His second assumption is that Charles just up and left, and wouldn't that just be _peachy._ Yes, Erik is attuned to the beat of the universe's drum, and it seems to be saying "Nice try, but no cigar."

 

So Erik does what he's programmed to, which starts with sending a screw out of the wardrobe to pop the balloon with _utter_ ferocity, and is followed by ugly-crying-face-minus-actual-tears #12 under the covers.

 

Because Charles seemed like he _fit._ Charles, with his pretty fucking eyes and understanding nature and _elbow patches,_ and none of this _fits._

 

Erik buries his face in his pillow, because he never got to do this sort of shit as a teenager, because this is legitimate one-hundred-percentile grade fucking A _heartbreak,_ and Erik would never say that out loud, but he's got Emma to hear it anyways, so.

 

None of this _fits._

 

Erik wants to force himself into a puffy, red-eyed sleep, but things aren't _fitting,_ and there's an empty, cold spot in the back of his brain.

 

An empty.

 

Cold.

 

Spot.

 

Erik's sits up slowly, mechanically. Ever since he'd made psychic contact with Charles, he'd felt it. Charles, grazing his consciousness. And now it was _missing._

 

_…_

 

Erik considered his options. He could get angry. He could forget about Charles, continue hunting Shaw, and live out a happy and fulfilling life _after_ Shaw died. He could retire, take up golfing, get a dog, and find Mr. Right, from whom he'd have to fabricate the last twenty-something years of his life, eventually get a divorce, and get another dog. He could disregard how none of this made any fucking sense _whatsoever,_ and follow though on his _extremely_ well-thought out life plan.

 

The thought made him _sick._ He could just see Shaw now, raising an eyebrow and chuckling.

 

 _"Oh, Erik."_ He'd say, " _So predictable. Don't you ever_ learn _?"_

 

And then Erik would get angry. _Again._

 

So Erik tries again. He's _not_ going to do what he was raised to do. Not what Shaw would expect, not at _all._ Erik's worked in situations where nothing made sense, where no plan could fall in place, and he knows a thing or two about _predictable._

 

…

 

Erik is seventeen, and metal is supposed to sing to him, but the collar around his neck feels like lead, and it chafes. He's in a dark room with Emma, Janos, Azazel, a litre of gasoline, and four like minds on _fire._

 

_He expects us to turn on him, he always has. He thinks limiting our powers will stop us._

 

Emma's voice in their heads is barely a whisper, and Erik has to strain to hear it, but it's _there._ Erik can't _begin_ to understand what Azazel was risking, using whatever inkling of the power left in his control to get the gasoline in.

 

"He'll _kill_ you!" Janos had whispered, eyes wide, when Azazel had tossed the canister nonchalantly on Emma's bed, next to an engraved Zippo Emma had pinched from Shaw's office.

 

"Nah." Azazel had grinned his warped grin, scars on his lips twisting and splitting. "He'll do worse than that."

 

…

 

The building burns.

 

It's chaos, with men in suits stumbling over their patent leather shoes to get to the double doors, briefcases in hand. There's no actual _cash_ on the premises, it's all been wired to Swedish banks, and all of Shaw's blackmail material is stored electronically. The elegant manor was sort of a dick move, on Shaw's part. Built on top of a Cold War silo, Erik and the other children had spent a fair chunk of their lives below the ground, seething and suffering. And now the place was burning, and they were still inside.

 

In all of the chaos, they'd managed to make it to Shaw's inner sanctum, and the bastard is no where to be seen. Emma fumbles through a desk, looking for something, _anything,_ that'll lead to unlocking the collars.

 

Janos is coughing violently. Erik grabs his hand and pulls him to the floor.

 

"Stay low, and keep your sleeve over your mouth."

 

Emma finds a locked drawer. _"Fuck._ Azazel, pass me that fire extinguisher."

 

Azazel raises an eyebrow, but he does what he's told. Approaching the bureau from the other side, and smashes the fire extinguisher against the back of the drawer. Erik hears a snapping sound as the lock breaks, and Azazel pulls a small, black plug from the drawer. Grabbing the base of Azazel's neck roughly, Emma's fingers find the hole in the back of the collar. Snatching the piece of plastic from Azazel's fingers, she shoves it into the keyhole. It clicks, and Azazel's collar falls to the floor.

 

"Emma! Unlock Janos!" Erik yells, eyes fixed on the boy on the floor next to him as Janos has another violent coughing fit. Azazel fits the plug into the back of Janos' collar, and it detaches itself. Erik unceremoniously yanks Janos off the ground and pushes him at Azazel.

 

"Get him out of here!"

 

Azazel's gold eyes find Erik's own, and in a cloud of fire and brimstone, he's gone.

 

So Emma and Erik, alone in a place that's dark, with flames licking the furniture. Emma unlocks Erik, then herself, before grabbing his hand and _squeezing._

 

She's not in diamond form, even if it would help her out a _lot,_ and it's just the two of them, playing for keeps in a losing game.

 

The door in front of them opens slowly, just like in a movie. There's creaking, and a shadowy figure behind it with a _promise._

 

…

 

It's Shaw. It couldn't be anyone else, otherwise that would _completely_ ruin the Hollywood feel of the whole scenario, and Shaw hates to disappoint, he _really_ does. That must be why he starts slow clapping. _Asshole._

 

The fire isn't burning him. His face has a glow to it that has nothing to do with the blazing inferno around him, and his teeth are white against the smoke.

 

"What a valiant effort, you two. _Bravo._ No, really! It's cute. I see Emma's still here to hold your hand, Erik. Oh well, I guess someone has to fill in for _mummy dearest,_ after all."

 

The metal supports of the building stop collapsing mid-disaster and stand to attention, even if it's just for a split second. Erik's vision is white hot, and Emma's hand in his is _digging._

 

Erik's voice is quiet, quiet like Emma's whisper in his head.

 

…

 

_"I'm going to kill you."_

 

_…_

 

Shaw's grin is impossibly wide, and Erik wants to flinch, but the building starts to fall again. Erik wants to stay and watch, wants to see just _how much_ force Shaw can take, before it finally kills him for real, but there's a hand on his shoulder, a familiar smell of tar, a flash of gold eyes, and the building is gone.

 

…

 

Erik stares at the remnants of the balloon in the corner. He looks at his second option and considers his first assumption. It seems narcissistic, paranoid, and a million kinds of impossible all at once, but Erik _knows_ impossible, and this is more like improbable, anyways.

 

He calls Emma.

 

 


	9. Aquatic Flesh-Eating Grin

Erik and Emma have the documents him and Charles stole from Rick Roberts spread over the coffee table. It's incriminating stuff, enough to get Shaw shipped off to Kansas to ensure capital punishment, in theory, but Erik and Emma have their own way of doing things.

 

The papers are only really there for effect, though. At least they're useful to Moira's department.

 

Erik is chugging black coffee from his favourite mug, but how black it _actually_ is is debatable, because there's a few shots of Grey Goose swimming about in it.

 

"I think Charles got kidnapped."

 

"Elaborate."

 

"We'd been talking, in the morning, and I was going to _tell_ him, about everything that happened, back then. He'd said some stuff, some important stuff. Not about letting go, not _really,_ but just not letting Shaw control my life. He was going out to get breakfast, and he told me to go back to sleep."

 

"When did you wake up?"

 

"In the late afternoon. Emma, it feels stupid, but I think I… meant _stuff_ to him. Like he wouldn't just _leave._ "

 

"Stuff. Okay. But you're right, Erik. I've been inside his head. You meant _stuff_ to him. A lot of _stuff._ "

 

Moira shuffles over from the kitchen, a fresh pot of coffee in hand. "So you think it's Shaw, right?"

 

Erik likes Moira. She understands tunnel-vision.

 

"Yes."

 

" _Erik._ " Emma implores. "You have a one-track mind, and a _lot_ of enemies. I think something bad _has_ happened to Charles, but it could be _anyone,_ don't rule other people out!"

 

"Well, actually-" Moira just _stood up_ to Emma. Erik's never seen anything like it, really. He'd always assumed it was one of those things that couldn't exist in mathematics, and therefore, not reality. Like heptagons or Purple People Eaters. So there's that.

 

"My team's been watching his activity in this area. Nothing big, but it seemed like he was keeping watch, like he was _waiting._ Emma, you've seen the inside of Charles' head, you _know_ he wouldn't just leave. Shaw could've been keeping tabs on you, ever since you got this stuff off of Rick Roberts. He'd need a bargaining chip, and in a city like this, Charles could easily get snatched without too much of a fuss."

 

Emma's staring, but Moira isn't flinching. She's got her brows furrowed in thought as she scans the papers. "The CIA had been looking at a building Shaw supposedly uses as his New York base. It seemed to be clean, just a regular office building. Charles could protect himself against regular thugs, if push came to shove, but Shaw's smart. He'd know _all_ about psychic range."

 

"My _head._ " Erik instinctively touches the base of his skull, missing it's usual warmth. "Charles was warm inside my head, like a _presence,_ after we met. I couldn't feel him today."

 

"The collars!" Emma's eyes widen. "When Shaw was… keeping us. He suspected we'd turn on him, so he gave us inhibitor collars for our abilities. I couldn't reach people with my mind anymore, not if I weren't touching them. Even then, it was weak."

 

Erik's putting pieces together in his mind. He's a pertinacious bastard, that much has always been true, and he may be jumping to some pretty serious conclusions here, but this _fits._

 

"The originals were destroyed when we burned the base, but he could easily get more."

 

Moira's drinking coffee straight from the pot, and Emma doesn't even look bothered. Erik is utterly convinced Moira is the one.

 

"If Charles got taken in the city, the building the CIA was looking at earlier must be hiding something."

 

Emma delicately manoeuvres the coffee pot out of Moira's grasp, pouring herself a cup. "Did your department look underground? Shaw has a rather creepy affiliation for Cold War silos."

 

Moira has the good grace to look sheepish. _Definitely_ the one.

 

Erik reaches for his leather jacket. "So you know where this building is, Moira?"

 

"I can get in touch with my team, and we an give it another look-"

 

Erik shrugs on his leather jacket and fixes Moira with an aquatic, flesh-eating grin. "I'm not CIA."

 

Moira doesn't even look fazed as she belts her trench coat.

 

…

 

So it's the three of them, hailing a town car for a Hollywood rescue, and when Emma says "drive like your life depends on it" and shoves a handful of crisp fifties in the driver's hand, Erik shifts the traffic pace _oh-so slightly._

 

Moira's fiddling with her phone, and she's used to structure, used to having people to call, and Erik can't begrudge her for wanting support from her team, from people she knows she can trust.

 

But then she's staring at Emma. Emma, and Shaw always said she was the Ice Queen, but she's got a heart on fire, a jut to her jaw, a curl to her fist, and the fumbling is gone.

 

Emma waves a hundred in front of their driver's face. "Break some rules, we've got somewhere to be. No, _really._ "

 

…

 

Manhattan is crunching under Erik's feet. There's a monster in his gut, and it wants to _roar,_ but Erik knows better, knows better than white noise and anger. He's doing the big boy walk, with leather and mirrored lenses and a smile straight off the Discovery channel. He's a fist amongst the hands, and he's playing this game, this losing game, with loaded dice set to explode.

 

The building towers above him, but Erik knows how to make it crumble, can feel it's skeleton rattling in his bones, and Charles' kiss is still brushing the corner of his mouth.

 

Emma rests a hand on his shoulder.

 

"Erik, we've been here before. But don't get sad, it shuts you down. Get _angry,_ if that's what you need to function at your best."

 

Erik grabs her hand and _squeezes._ They've been here before, working without a plan and without anyone at their backs. Maybe they've grown up, and maybe it's still a losing game, but they're still playing for keeps.

 

"I don't need to get angry."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps i obviously know nothing about bureaucrats
> 
> stay tuned for more evidence of that


	10. Your Helmet Makes You Look Like a Dick (No, Really)

The building is unremarkable. Bricks, roosting pigeons, and concrete. Heavy canvas sheets lie strewn about with what Erik would like to think is mathematical precision.

 

Moira's got her hands on her gun and her eyes on the back of Emma's head.

 

Emma shifts to her diamond form, crystals crunching as they crawl over her skin, catching light from between the window boards as she moves across the floor, footsteps echoing on the cement and off the high ceiling, before turning to a different method of searching. The diamond planes of Emma's skin fold in on themselves as Emma turns her gaze inwards. Erik can feel Moira's breath hitch as she stares, and there's a flicker in her eyes that's more than a trick of low lighting.

 

Erik wonders if Moira's seen Emma like this before, not just with her shatterproof shell, but with her breakable expression, brittle to the core.

 

Because Erik's seen Emma at her strongest, which has never been more than a shallow breath away from the skinny girl he once called home. Never scared, but always nervous, with hands that couldn't, _wouldn't_ tremble, and a chin tilted towards the sky, even if she stood beneath the earth.

 

Emma's searching for something, and she's following nail-scratches left in the stagnant air and screams that have tucked themselves in the nests in the rafters, because she's following a paper trail after the rain, and here, Erik can't follow her, no matter how hard he may try, but he hopes Moira _can._

 

Moira's searching, too. Erik can see that. She's watching the facets of Emma's body, looking for where she can _stay,_ and Emma's never needed anywhere but _out,_ needed a body count to chart a course of action, needed a reason to lift her head _higher_ , looking to the sun while she cleans the gutter. Because Erik and Moira may need a guns, but Emma's word is the trigger, and it always has been.

 

So yes, Moira's staring. That much is obvious, and psychic or not, Erik hopes Emma can _see,_ that she can look down far enough to see Moira looking back, from her guns and her DNA and her need for order.

 

…

 

"He was here. Charles. I can _feel_ it. He's left so much residue, Christ. He's a _fighter._ " Emma sounds a little proud, and Erik can't help but be smug, because he was _right._

 

Shaw isn't the first thing on his mind, but if he _tries,_ tries to put a roadblock on Erik's way to a restful sleep away from what his story was _supposed_ to be, Erik isn't afraid to follow him back down whatever Cold War silo he's hiding in and _end_ him.

 

"Emma, what else can you pick up? Did they leave the building?"

 

Emma shakes her head. "People are still here. They're probably expecting us, or something else equally commonplace and banal."

 

Erik snorts. Fucking _typical._ Next thing he knows, Shaw'll be explaining how he installed video cameras in Erik's coffee maker while stroking a hairless cat.

 

Emma tugs her white Cynthia Vincent biker jacket tighter around her frame, a casts her eyes to the floor. "Check the floor, Erik. See if there's anything you can… unhinge."

 

Erik stretches his arms out in front of him, feeling his presence shift the space around him as he moves. He can hear the droning and grating as the old building protests his company. Behind him, he hears the heels of Moira's boots click as she shifts closer to Emma. There are things Erik cannot see, can only taste the burnished tickle on the roof of his mouth. He closes his eyes, and he can hear chimes in the dark as the building around him, built to _bend_ to his will, stands to attention. Emma's silent as the grave, but her strings are still attached, and Erik can feel them go slack as she lets him fiddle with the conductivity humming around him.

 

He thinks of Charles, with a small crooked smile better described as a _promise._ Erik's the gun, and Emma's the trigger, but Charles, Charles is the _reason._

 

Charles is the reason Erik wavers when his mind shouts _run,_ because he's locked on the idea that he could have _more_ than this. Because Erik has a utility belt full of deadly crap and a deadlier smile, and _normal people,_ even mutants, should't _need_ that, but Erik has scars for the story behind that smile, and a story for every scar. Charles kisses him like he could shatter, but Charles won't walk around him like he's made of glass. Erik wants more than a life twisted into a revenge story, even when he doesn't, _especially_ when he doesn't. Involuntarily, Charles busted down a door in Erik's head, and it's letting Erik be selfish. Erik wants Charles, wants him to _stay._ Erik wants Charles because Charles is the pearls on his body armour, silk draped over his Semtex, because Charles is a perfect luxury, and Erik doesn't need revenge to drive him to _need_ Charles.

 

…

 

There's a rumbling in Erik's bones, and he can feel something be displaced. Moira and Emma's shoulders are brushing, but Emma's rock solid, and Moira's fingers are tight around the handle of her gun.

 

He can feel something here, something calling him like a breath on his ear, and it's cold and sharp as anything he's ever known. There's a click under their feet, under the concrete, and there's liquid pressure pouring over Erik's body at the feeling, but he's never been more sure of what he can't and _can_ do, not since Emma met his eyes the night they left together, all those years ago.

 

…

 

Emma's growing into herself, seventeen and the most beautiful thing that ever had to live below the surface. Free from her collar, her head is unbowed. The fog around them is softening the jagged contours of the city night, but Erik's still waiting for someone to reach out and grab him. Emma's got a bag with her, filled with paper and plastic and everything they'll ever need, as long as they have each other to hold themselves together. Erik has a gun, even if it's for cosmetic damage only, but he'll be damned if he doesn't sleep with it under his pillow.

 

Emma reaches out to hold his hand, and the significance of the gesture isn't lost on Erik, never was. Her skin is soft, and her eyes are dry.

 

"One day, Erik. We'll get him."

 

"Do you think… Azazel and Janos will be okay?"

 

Emma's hand squeezes his, and she pulls him out from under the streetlight and through the city. "Of course. They're ready, Erik. Just like we are. Everything is going to be just _fine,_ and one day, we'll finish him. For _keeps._ "

 

…

 

Shaw's always been content to live life _taking._ Taking years and lives and fortunes and Erik's _everything._ Erik had been powerless, that first time he heard gunfire, but this time, Erik had been an adult, tall and strong and _capable,_ with every way of stopping it. And yet, Shaw could still pluck Charles from his fingers as though it had been effortless. Erik certainly has something to say about _that,_ and it involves quite few words and a lot of throat punching.

 

…

 

The floor looks like solid cement, but at Erik's urging a decent sized chunk of it lifts itself off, metal beams underneath shivering and twisting. There's a way down, and Emma's already stepping forward, Moira right behind her. Emma turns, placing a hand on Moira's cheek. Erik looks away. It isn't his place to bear witness to this moment.

 

"Stay here, I'll be in touch from where we are."

 

_"Emma-"_

 

"No, Moira."

 

"I should be there with you!"

 

" _Moira._ In the short time I have known you, you have never given me any reason to doubt your strength in the field of action. I trust you, and right now, I need you to trust _me._ Mutants, Moira. You can't understand what you're up against. Stay _here,_ keep your gun at the ready, and your team, too. We're going to need you, but right now, this is _my_ battle."

 

Erik can hear Moira's fingers squeeze the leather of Emma's jacket, can hear the brush of their coats as they lean in. He keeps his eyes trained firmly on the hole in the floor in front of him as he hears them kiss briefly, before Emma draws back. Moira rests their foreheads together.

 

"Emma, I-" There's a hesitation. "Well, I'm here. Just holler if you need me."

 

"Of course."

 

Emma strides over to Erik, intent in her eyes and the way her heels hit the ground. Her hand brushes his. "Ready?"

 

"We don't have a plan."

 

"We don't _need_ one."

 

…

 

Shaw's new helmet makes him look like a dick.

 

No, _really._

 

It makes him look like a huge, purple, _penis._


	11. Barbaric Brand of Trendy Capitalism

Erik spent a good chunk of his youth crammed into a Cold War silo, angry and scared, and he always thought returning would awaken him, somehow.

 

Like walking down the ramps and hearing the same dull echoes would give him something, something to _work with,_ some kind of power he could use to achieve his violent ends, because Shaw's barbaric brand of trendy capitalism couldn't beget anything but _mayhem._

 

But power isn't what it used to be, for Erik.

 

Power isn't letting himself tune in to the monster roaring deep in his gut, letting the bullets fly when he could hardly _feel_ them. Power isn't watching a target hit the ground, and it isn't the feeling that comes after, the feeling that this may not be _good,_ but it is most definitely _right._

 

But that _could_ be it. That could be the perfect level of mastery, something without control and discipline. Wild, relentless until it _isn't,_ a tyranny of the senses because of what it can _do._ Power can be the answer, even when no one's asking.

 

But then again, it could also be _more._

 

Power could be more than the man who stands above you in your final moments, using a bullet to pull your sins out in front of your eyes, kicking and screaming. More than the final judgment of someone who's chosen to do what is _right_ in the place of what is _good._ Power can be more than the finger that pulls the trigger.

 

Erik completely, _completely_ blames Charles for all these damn revelations, for the odd sense of mundane calm that he's feeling when he always thought this moment would be a march to the final battlefield.

 

Because to Charles, power is walking on a line. The line between rage and serenity, in Erik's case.

 

Power is a gift, and like any gift, it's better to give than receive, to walk that line with a sense of humility. Power is a commitment not only to oneself, but to those without it. Power is falling to the ceiling, and preparing for the impact is the closest thing to being _ready,_ because no one's ever ready. Power is swaying yourself in the place of the world, pulling your own strings instead of letting it pull everyone else in ways you don't really _want,_ but it _can._

 

Power is waiting until there's nothing left to want, and Erik always thought Shaw would be the grande finale, the final flower laid on the grave of the fact that he'd come to peace with the fact that he never _could_ be at peace.

 

But here he is, following Emma down the winding metal rabbit hole, and he's not looking for Shaw. Shaw's an inevitable obstacle, just another hit, another target, but Erik's looking for _Charles._

 

Emma looks over at Erik, a small, symmetrical smile lingering on her face. "You think rather loudly."

 

…

 

Shaw raises an eyebrow, like he's waiting to be noticed, with his _stupid_ fucking helmet, and Erik couldn't care _less._

 

"Magneto. I believe you have something of mine."

 

…

 

Rick Roberts' papers. It _had_ to be the papers, which hadn't even _mattered_ to Erik at the time he'd gotten hold of them, even though they were probably _incredibly_ significant, because he'd been too busy sucking Charles off in a fucking _elevator-_

 

"Seriously, Erik? I did _not_ need that image in my head, thank you _very_ much." Emma's crinkling her nose, and she's not even _glancing_ in Shaw's direction.

 

Shaw clears his throat, but Emma cuts him off.

 

"That's a fucking ugly helmet."

 

He looks a bit offended, but he's taking what he can get in the attention department. "It has uses, my dear Ice Queen-"

 

"Oh, _fuck you-_ "

 

"-When it comes to dealing with telepaths."

 

"I'm not your _dear,_ Shaw. _Or_ your fucking Ice Queen. It's not just that it's deprecating or forcing me to fit into a specific gender-stereotype, it also sounds fucking stupid."

 

"But not as stupid as your helmet." Erik chimes in, and he can't help but smirk a bit, about how facetious this whole thing is, after all this time, and after all that pain.

 

"Have you two come, after all this time, after all this searching, to argue about _names_?"

 

"Oh, stuff it!" Emma crosses her arms and taps her foot against the floor. "We're here for Erik's _boyfriend._ "

 

"Oh, _you're_ one to take that tone!" Erik's voice is high and indignant, and he's a little embarrassed at Emma's tone, because _seriously?_

 

" _Excuse_ me?"

 

"I mean, you're all like 'Oh, Moira's _just_ a fling! I like money and cars!' But that's all _bullshit._ Because the _last_ time you married a scumbag and brainwashed him, you didn't take _anything_ for yourself, and got him to donate all the money to rape relief shelters, and then you said you _didn't!_ And don't give me that look, I saw the thank you card that came in the mail! So why _pretend?_ And Moira! Moira's the happiest I've seen you with _anyone,_ and whenever I suggest that you _like_ her, you completely brush me off, and just, _just-_ "

 

" _But as I was saying-"_ Shaw begins.

 

" _Shut the fuck up!"_ Erik and Emma roar in unison.

 

"Anyways, you always ask me if I'm happy, but look at yourself for once, Emma! Why do hide yourself from me? No matter what we've been told, compassion _isn't_ a weakness, and you, out of everyone I've ever met, deserve to be happy."

 

"Oh, _Erik…_ " Emma sighs, and it's full of complications and childhood issues, and things they can't really talk about right now, but _still._

 

…

 

Erik wonders why he's actually _surprised_ when he looks over to see Shaw isn't there anymore.

 

...

 

Of course, there are henchmen. Theatrics are as much a part of the game as weapons, the way Erik and Emma have been raised to play. The plastic guns are new and exciting, and Erik and Emma may not have plan, but they still have their wits, so it's sort not surprising at all that when the gang tries to rush them, Erik just mangles the building a bit in his favour, because weapons are more than what you can hold onto.

 

'Mangling' is a relative term, but the building doesn't need _all_ of it's supports to stay upright, at least not when Erik's around.

 

…

 

Erik thinks installing an easy-access elevator in the place might have been a good idea, because strolling down catwalks and leaving wreckage in his wake isn't Erik's idea of a good time, and frankly, he'd rather put up with elevator music.

 

…

 

"Italian double doors. _How_ much did it cost to renovate this dump?" Erik's looking down a too well-lit hallway, and Shaw couldn't be anywhere but here, because where else would anyone even _bother_ with double doors that would never even see the day?

 

"French, I think. More glass." Emma snorts.

 

 

Emma never had Erik's tunnel-vision when it came to Shaw, but like _hell_ if Erik can't feel the heat at her heels right now. Emma doesn't _lose,_ not anymore, not since they left together. Emma's on the hunt, just like always, but unlike Erik, she's always had her head in the right place, able to look past what Erik always thought would be the end of all purpose. She doesn't _need_ a revelation, because she's felt anger in her bones and known what to do with it, known that even if it came to this, because she _wanted_ it to, it wouldn't be the end, not for anyone but Shaw.

 

Emma was born the _victor,_ and Erik thinks Shaw must have been blind to try and say anything otherwise.

 

 _I think maybe we should call Moira now, just so we can have some backup._ Erik thinks in Emma's direction.

 

_I know you know we don't need backup, and that you know I know you know that you definitely just want Moira around so we can make googly eyes at each other, but sure, why not?_

 

_Ask her to bring her department along. If we're focusing on Charles right now, we need a clean-up crew._

 

Erik thinks that if he were different, he'd be focusing on Shaw right now, but he's not, so there's that.

 

…

 

Emma kicks the doors down, her white Doc Martens catching the fluorescent lights almost as much as her skin as she changes form.

 

"Jesus, Shaw, couldn't you stick around for two goddamn minutes when the spotlight wasn't on you?"

 

"Well, if you two are finished with your little sappy moment, let's talk business, why don't we?"

 

Erik snorts, because once upon a time, he thought emotion was weakness, too, and it makes him sick to think who he almost compared himself to, what his story could have easily devolved into, if he let it. "Nah, we're not done with the hair-braiding and trust falls just yet, but as long as you're here, we may as well get to it. Where the fuck is Charles, Shaw?"

 

"Papers, first, Magneto. Then I'll consider what your precious little _Charles_ is worth."

 

He says Charles' name like he used to say Erik's mother's, and it makes Erik want to punch Shaw in the face, if he didn't know what Shaw could _do,_ but Shaw's approach to power isn't the same as Erik's, and that's enough.

 

"I don't have your papers, Shaw. I'm not _here_ to negotiate. We already asked nicely, and if you're not gonna play along-"

 

"I think you misinterpret who's game this is, Magneto. I already _have_ Charles. And truthfully, I _do_ miss having a psychic under my thumb…" Shaw's eyes linger on Emma, and Erik can hear carbon crunch as she curls her fists.

 

Erik meets her eyes, wants to touch her mind, but he _can't,_ and fuck, he's _worried._

 

_…_

 

Emma approaches Shaw, and Erik sees her draw a gun from under her biker jacket. He wants to scream, but he _can't,_ and Emma holds all his trust, always has, but he can't help but _doubt,_ because bullets are _energy,_ and they both know that would only hinder their mission, if Shaw absorbed even _one._

 

Shaw's smiling, his eyes on Emma's gun. He opens his arm, an open invitation. "Oh, Ice Queen. Just _try._ "

 

Things are moving in slow motion, and Erik can't _move._

 

But then Emma's right in front of Shaw, dropping the gun and hissing " _Absorb this, fuck wad_ ", before reaching out and grabbing the crotch of Shaw's chinos.

 

Grab, Twist, Pull.

 

Shaw's face is momentarily stunned, before he crumples to the ground, and Erik can move again.

 

Emma turns to Erik as she unceremoniously plucks Shaw's helmet from his head.

 

"You were right about those rape relief shelters, Erik. But the card wasn't about the donations, those were _anonymous,_ as if I would make them _traceable._ It was a thank you card for the self defence classes I was teaching."

 

"I can't believe I doubted you, even for a minute. Holy _shit,_ Emma, you were in _diamond form_ when you-"

 

Emma raises a hand, cutting him off. "It was disgusting. We are never to speak of this again."

 

Reaching into her pocket, Emma pulls out an old coin. It's familiarity makes Erik's stomach jump. "What can I say? I'm sentimental like that. Care to do the honours?"

 

"But what about-"

 

"I know where he's keeping Charles. Surprisingly pathetic mental blocks for someone supposedly running a criminal empire. For my sake, keep those campy hand movements you do to a minimum."

 

Erik lets the coin sail through the air and come to rest on Shaw's forehead, vibrating with an anticipation that Erik can't even pretend is about Shaw, not when he's _this close_ to getting Charles back.

 

Shaw's saying something, but Erik isn't even _listening_ as he slots the coin through his head.

 

…

 

"Erik, Please tell me taking down targets isn't some kind of aphrodisiac."

 

_"Emma-"_

 

"It's just the elevator scene is still imprinted on the back of my eyelids, so."

 

"Are you _still_ on that?"

 

 

 


	12. Coffee Withdrawal and Running For Your Life: They Don't Mix

Emma saunters back through the French double doors, Erik in tow.

 

The coin and the helmet lie forgotten on the floor next to the cadaver.

 

…

 

Erik is acutely aware of the building around him, feeling it hum deep in his bones. It's a cold ache in his teeth, and it feels so _malleable,_ like he could take the entire building and crumble it into a ball. He's _anticipating,_ and the tips of his fingers feel white hot at the thought of the touch of Charles' consciousness returning to it's place the base of his skull, the thought of letting Charles _in._

 

Emma's got him by the hand, her skin soft in it's human form, and she's leading him through the twists and turns of the ramps and catwalks as they go deeper.

 

"What's Moira's current location?" Erik asks.

 

"She and her team are spread out on the upper levels."

 

"What's she told them?"

 

"That this is a rescue mission. They're armed, and dealing with the last of Shaw's men."

 

"So what's our story?"

 

"We're a couple of mutants trying to get your boyfriend back. You can control metal, and I can carbonize my body."

 

"We're leaving out the psychic bit?"

 

"For practicality's sake."

 

"And what about our relation to Moira?"

 

"Well, I'm her girlfriend, and Charles is a friend of mine. I informed her he was missing, she suggested following a probable lead involving a Mutant criminal empire, and I proceeded to take matters into my own hands in a manner that was very dangerous and reckless."

 

"And Shaw?"

 

"Attacked us, you panicked, the helmet came off, and the coin went in. If they find the body."

 

"So we're using a self defence claim?"

 

"We've got other tricks up our sleeve, if we need them."

 

"And you've relayed our plan to Moira?"

 

"Naturally."

 

…

 

The door is not so much a door as a solid chunk of iron lodged into a hole in the wall and fitted with hinges, but Erik makes it snap, swinging back with a brush of his hands.

 

Power is easy, as long as Erik doesn't think about it. Instead, he thinks of Charles, and the lines of his vision turn crisp and dark.

 

…

 

Charles is sitting on a thin cot. He's wearing one of Erik's shirts, something he grabbed haphazardly on his way to fetch breakfast. It makes heat bloom in Erik's chest as Charles brings his eyes up to meet him.

 

"I was wondering when you'd turn up." Charles smiles, trying to lighten the mood, but his voice breaks a little at the end, and Erik can feel the silo _shift_ a centimetre as something throbs in his throat like it could _snap_.

 

" _Charles._ "

 

…

 

Charles' inhibitor collar is digging into Erik's chest, the bright plastic feeling resilient and _impossible._ Charles is kissing him like he wants to crawl inside his mouth and stay there forever. His mouth is as red as Erik remembers, and his hands are dragging over Erik's back like he's clinging to something. Erik wraps his arms around Charles' waist squeezing him to remember that he can hold on, that this is _solid._

 

The shirt Charles pilfered off of Erik's floor is starting to smell like him, like dusty canvases and musty cologne with a touch of something honeyed. Their teeth are catching, and it makes Charles' breath hitch _just so_ , pulling Erik back to the present.

 

Emma is politely eyeing the ground, and the sense of urgency boiling in Erik's gut cools itself as Charles strokes his fingers along his spine.

 

"We… should go. Moira's probably waiting for us." Erik's voice is hoarse, his gaze fixating on the swelling starting on Charles' lips.

 

"Good to know you're safe, Charles." Emma turns to leave, gesturing for Erik and Charles to follow. Erik catches her smile.

 

Charles fixes Erik with one of his crooked, small grins, sneaks a small kiss on the corner of his mouth (a _promise,_ just like before), and saunters after Emma.

 

Erik allows himself to enjoy the view of Charles ass in rumpled, morning-after jeans that are far too long for him. _Obviously_ Erik's.

 

…

 

The trio make their way back through hallways and up ramps, and Erik lets his fingers run along a banister. He can still feel all the metal in the silo thrumming under his feet, but it's no longer as _bendable_ as it was before. Erik's hands aren't shaking anymore, and the white heat that drove him to find Charles is dimmer now. Power flickers and shifts like a candle, but Erik is sure that when he needs it most, it can be a _forest fire._

 

Erik's mind is wrapped up in his surroundings, cold and sharp and familiar. He can feel the electrons in the building, orbiting to the beat of a metronome, because to Erik, metals are never truly _still._

 

That's how he anticipates it.

 

…

 

Something deep inside the tower isn't purring like everything else, it's _shrieking,_ and Erik can feel it's weight, searing and _hot._ It's loaded, and _waiting,_ and it's almost terrifying.

 

"Emma!" Erik yanks Charles arm, pulling him close. Emma freezes in her place, her skin immediately hardening as she switches forms.

 

Charles can't touch Erik's mind, not with the collar, and his eyes are wide with panic. He's cut off from immediately knowing what's happening, and Erik imagines it's like being blinded.

 

Pulling Charles to the ground, Erik shields him with his body as the first explosion hits somewhere in front of them. Focusing on the figure beneath him, Erik feels the familiar roaring in his ears as he pushes falling debris back. Charles' heart is hammering against Erik's chest, and everything looks infinitely _sharper_ as Erik suspends the ceiling.

 

Emma's by his side, lifting them both off the ground. "We need to move!"

 

"How many more bombs are there?" Charles yells, over the din.

 

"I can't concentrate enough to tell, but they're above us!"

 

"I'll go ahead. Nothing like that can damage me in this form."

 

"You'll need to shift at least once! Tell Moira what's going on!" Erik hollers, grabbing Charles with one hand and using the other to form themselves a pathway through the wreckage.

 

"Can you cover me?"

 

Erik nods, legs shaking as he rushes to Emma's side. "I don't know for how long I can, if we're not movi-"

 

Emma works instantaneously, skin flashing, and they're running again.

…

 

Erik's legs are _numb._ He's seriously considering giving up coffee if this is what withdrawal feels like after an excessive period of running for his life. Despite being locked up in a holding cell, Charles seems to be doing much better.

 

Fucking tea drinkers.

 

…

 

Another explosion hits, closer. Emma's shoved off of her feet into a wall, denting it, and Erik and Charles are thrown to the floor by the blast. The ceiling begins to cave, and Erik begins to feel how _exhausted_ he is. Focusing, he manages to hold it up, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't _move_ it.

 

_"Erik!"_

 

Charles is petrified, they're both _caked_ in soot and god-knows-what, the bright, plastic inhibitor collar is fucking _hideous_ (Thanks for that, Shaw), and shit's on _fire,_ but Charles still manages to make Erik's name sound sexy. So there's that.

 

The way Charles says Erik's name sounds like a _promise,_ just like his kisses feel, and it's enough for Erik to toss the ceiling back like aluminum foil.

 

Fuck giving up coffee for tea, Erik just needs to kiss Charles when he feels tired.

 

Emma runs over, stumbling over the rubble. "Moira says someone's on their way to bring us out. I sent them a visual of where we are."

 

"What? How-"

 

A dark cloud appears, followed by the scent of brimstone, and Erik can't help but find it _familiar._

 

"What is it with you two and ending shit with fiery explosions?"

 

Emma puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "Long time no see, Azazel."

 

Erik keeps an arm around Charles and lets Azazel pull him to his feet.

 

"Hold on, you three."

 

Black smoke clouds Erik's vision, and the silo is gone.

 


	13. Don't Scare The Interns

Erik grabs Emma's shoulder, steadying himself as his vision stops spinning. He's back in the old building above the silo, and Moira's running over to them from a bustling crowd of agents, her relief apparent.

 

She stops short in front of Emma, seemingly unsure what to do. She reaches out to wipe a smear of ash off of Emma's face, before hesitating, and dropping her arm.

 

"You're… you're alright."

 

Emma nods. "You thought fast. I never thought I'd see _him_ again." She inclines her head in Azazel's direction. Moira gives her a small smile.

 

"It's good to see you're safe, Emma."

 

It's an awkward exchange, and Moira's standing straighter than a pole.

 

Erik and Charles exchange a bemused look, and Erik hopes Emma can see.

 

…

 

Azazel claps Erik on the shoulder, fixing him with his familiar crooked smile, the old scars on his lips twisting. "I think you've got a story for me, after you lot give your statement."

 

"Statement?"

 

"Protocol. I wouldn't worry. Emma's sure to have whipped up some tale for you two, and besides, my department has been having so many fuckin' hissy fits over that bastard back there that they'll take whatever you give 'em."

 

"Your department?"

 

…

 

A blue-skinned woman in a straight-cut black blazer pushes her way through the group of suits fighting for her attention, heels clicking as they grind into the ground. She pulls a badge out of her pocket, holding it up to eye level.

 

"Raven Darkholme, CIA, Department of Mutant Affair- _Charles!_ "

 

She folds her arms over her chest, chin tilting down and brows furrowing like a mother disciplining her son. "Let me _guess._ You managed to get wrapped up with Sebastian Shaw, that _whack job,_ somehow, and now you're gonna be the primary cause for all paperwork and migraines in my near future."

 

Charles looks sheepish, edging closer to Erik. "I was _kidnapped,_ Raven! Honest!"

 

"Well, _duh._ Doesn't get me out of paperwork, now, does it?"

 

Erik glances between the two as Azazel stifles laughter. "Friend of yours, Charles?"

 

Raven snorts. " _Only_ friend." She turns to Erik, eyeing him appreciatively. "And who might _you_ be, Mr. Tall, Dark, and covered in god-knows-what?"

 

"Erik."

 

Raven raises an eyebrow. " _Oh._ Well, it's about time we were introduced. Truthfully, I'd hoped it'd be over dinner at a nice restaurant, but I guess you can't always get what you want."

 

Erik nods, unsure what to say.

 

"Silent type, huh? Figures. Hard to find someone who'll put up with Charles' constant nattering. Anyways, Erik, it's not that I don't like you or anything, but we're gonna have to take you and your blonde friend in for questioning. You too, Charles."

 

Emma looks over from her quiet conversation with Moira, expression unreadable.

 

Azazel clears his throat. "Their old friends of mine, Ms. Darkholme. _Old_ friends."

 

Raven tucks a stray red curl behind her ear, her yellow eyes seemingly brighter. "Why am I not surprised? Azazel, grab Janos and take these three back to base. Get Hank working on that collar. They probably have a statement ready. At least it saves me from having to tie up all those loose ends. They'd probably have me knee-deep in the junk in whatever's left of the silo, searching for evidence."

 

"Moira's coming with us." Emma has her palms pressed against the lapels of Moira's trench coat, and she looks at Raven with a challenge on her tongue. Moira's looking at Emma with sparkly little hearts in her eyes, and Erik would smack his hand over his face if his hands weren't completely filthy.

 

"Agent McTaggert isn't under my jurisdiction. She is free to do as she pleases. Although, on a less professional note, Moira, you certainly called the right people to help with our little problem."

 

Emma's gaze softens. "It'll be nice to see Janos again."

 

Raven offers Emma a smile, and she's offering a peace treaty. She walks up to Erik, poking him in the chest. "Look here, Erik. You may have just saved me from filing a _shit ton_ of paperwork, and you may have just completed a _selflessly stupid_ rescue mission, but if you're not half the man Charles seems to think you are, I've got an arsenal of threats, and the authority to make them come true. Are we clear?" She glances over at Charles, raising an eyebrow. "Nice outfit, Charles."

 

Emma snorts.

 

Erik opens his mouth to reply, but Raven has already turned on her heels, brusquely giving orders as she makes her way through the sea of operatives. Charles is fiddling with the sleeve of his quite-obviously-borrowed shirt, smirking up at Erik.

 

"She likes you."

 

Erik stares at the back of Raven's head. She holds a commanding air, the kind that inspires loyalty and respect. The dark-haired young man handing her an phone is partially obscured, but Erik can tell he holds her in complete confidence.

 

Azazel clears his throat again. "Yeah, I'd say she'd mighty fond of you, Erik. Let's get you lot back to base. Hank'll take care of that collar of yours. Jansci!"

 

At the sound of the nickname, the man looks for Raven's approval before shifting his attention to Azazel. Erik recognizes him immediately.

 

"Erik! Emma!" Janos almost drops the phone before it reaches Raven's hands.

 

…

 

Another flash of smoke, and the group is standing in what Erik assumes is the base of the Department of Mutant Affairs. Charles' arm is tight around his waist, and Emma's hand is firmly gripping his own. Raven is already holding her phone up to her ear.

 

"Get me Henry McCoy, we've got inhibitor tech that needs dismantling over here."

 

Interns are staring at the mess that is Erik, Emma, and Charles, but Erik glares them into submission. Raven taps him admonishingly on the cheek as she puts down her phone. "Don't scare the interns, we need them."

 

A furry blue man in a pinstripe suit is striding over to them with huge steps, grinning in a way that is _probably_ meant to be comforting. He extends a huge paw to Raven, giving it a firm squeeze.

 

"Good to see you're still alive and kicking, Raven. You mentioned something about inhibitor tech?"

 

Moira inclines her head in Charles' direction. "Think you can handle it?" She teases.

 

Henry snorts, and the interns flinch.

 

Delicately prodding the collar around Charles' neck, he makes an appreciative hum. "This is good stuff, could even help out mutants with just-surfacing destructive abilities. Shame it looks like it's been in the wrong hands."

 

"You can take it apart and see what makes it tick, Hank. Just get it off, first." Raven says.

 

"Of course. Sir, I'm going to need you to come with me, if that's alright." Charles reluctantly peels himself from Erik's side, casting him a longing look as he follows the scientist to his lab.

 

Janos brushes back his hair, turning to Emma and Erik. "Azazel tells me you two are still in the business of arson, apparently."

 

Raven shoots Azazel a glare as the interns' ears perk up _visibly._ "I think the family reunion's going to have to wait, Janos. Erik, Emma, you two are going to have to come with me. And before you ask, yes, Moira can come too."

 

…

 

Erik and Emma sit on one side of Raven's desk. Raven sits across from them, while Moira hovers behind them, eyes on Emma. Raven's downing some coffee from the pot on her desk, and Erik eyes her enviously until she points to some mugs over by the window, telling him to help himself.

 

Raven coughs. "So, let's get this straight. Our Charles and Erik are going steady. One day, the big bad mutant terrorist, with no connections _whatsoever_ to one Erik Lehnsherr, gets it in his head to up and kidnap the poor little telepath. Now, Erik's a good samaritan, if not a little reckless, and uses his ties to Agent Mctaggert, through his good friend Emma Frost, to try and help get his cutie pie back. Agent Mctaggert tries to get through to her department, but before she can, all hell breaks loose. Fortunately for us, our lovely agent had the good sense to bring in the Department of Mutant Affairs to help rescue our poor victims. Shit went kaboom, our big bad didn't make it." She folds her arms in front of her, resting them on the table. "Now, that'll cover us, more or less. The guys upstairs don't take our department seriously unless they can give another negative spin on mutants, but Shaw's work didn't affect _their_ sort of people. The people who came out the most damaged from all of Shaw's work were mutants. Azazel and Janos. You two. Countless others, it's anyone's guess how _old_ this guy is."

 

Erik feels a familiar dull ache as Raven covers the subject. On the wall behind Raven, there's an old activist poster. _Mutant and Proud._ A blue fist is sharp against the yellow backdrop, and Erik wants to know Raven like Charles knows Raven.

 

"The story you gave me will be just fine for the suits, but not for me. Erik, you're involved with my oldest friend, and I need to know what sort of person you are. Whatever happened in that silo, for my own peace, I need to know _why._ "

 

Erik can feel Moira's hands tight on the metal of Emma's chair. Erik wants to peel back the walls of the office and book it, but hey, he needs the practice if he's going to talk to Charles.

 

"My father was Jakob Eisenhardt."

 

Raven's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, but she stays quiet. Erik's coffee is cooling on the table.

 

"After he left Shaw's industry, he got married. Changed his name. Had a kid. But Shaw wasn't alright with that." Erik's voice breaks a little bit, and Emma's hand finds his. "He tied up his loose ends with Jakob and his wife. But unlike Jakob, I was a mutant, a more powerful playing piece. So he bagged me, used me to help build his fortune. You look like you've done your research, you know what he did."

 

Raven nods. "You escaped."

 

"I didn't want to run, at first. I just wanted to _finish_ him." The words are coming naturally, now, and Erik feels more confident. "We had limited skill sets, and we were suddenly on the _outside._ Emma and I went together. I didn't know what happened to Azazel and Janos, until now."

 

"They found me. But that's a story for another time."

 

"Emma could always make the connections we needed to survive."

 

Emma joins in. "Shaw wasn't the only man we knew who was above the jurisdiction of the law. We'd met his business partners, and to put it lightly, Erik needed a distraction."

 

"Elaborate."

 

"There are always people operating above the law. They infringe on the rights of other people. Mutants. Sex trade workers. Illegal labourers. Erik's right, our skill set was limited. But we were angry, and like he said, I had the right connections."

 

"So you're a hitman."

 

Erik blinks. "How-"

 

"Charles told me. Also, you're wearing a _utility belt._ That's not the part of the story I'm unclear on. What I'm worried about, is now that you have your _revenge,_ where does that leave Charles?"

 

Erik is still, and the shift in his thinking is scarily clear right now. "I didn't do… it. For revenge. It had been the plan, but that's not what happened."

 

"Forgive me for failing to understand how your lifetime obsession with the man who killed your parents suddenly was nulled and voided when he was in your clutches."

 

"He'd kidnapped Charles, and I couldn't even understand _why._ It'd been because I had some important papers that could, in the right hands, help bust his case wide open, but it hadn't _mattered._ I wanted to see him punished, but suddenly, it wasn't about how he'd taken my life away from me. It was about how he'd taken someone else. I'd always known he was above the law, that he'd gotten away with what he did to us, what he did to my parents, but those things had already happened. This was something I could _stop_ , but it wasn't about stopping Shaw."

 

"So what was it about?"

 

"He just wanted his boyfriend back, and he's too damn proud to admit it." Emma tilts her head back over her chair, meeting Moira's gaze.

 

"Oh, _I'm_ too damn proud to admit-"

 

Emma cuts him off, pulling Moira down for an unexpected kiss. It's wet and political, and Erik wonders how the chair doesn't topple over.

 

Raven rolls her eyes. "You people are too facetious for your own good. Yeah, I've done my research on Shaw, and if you two bickered in front of _him_ like this during your big damn showdown, it's a wonder he didn't off _himself._ Speaking of which, I was just about to ask, Moira, what your involvement in this whole mess was, but if you need some alone time with-"

 

Moira straightens back up, pulling her trench coat back into place. She's blushing furiously, and Emma is giving Erik a smug look.

 

"Raven, you of all people know it's more important to do what is good over what is right. Our department's in the dark half the time, and the suits are always looking for reasons to cut funding. The Shaw project was taking away from our real jobs, to protect and serve the mutant population. I found a chance to handle it more efficiently, and I took it."

 

"Got more than you bargained for, too, by the looks of it." Raven waggles her eyebrows in Emma's direction, and Erik's liking her more by the second. Emma's smug look falters a little under Raven's yellow gaze, and Erik's sure she's almost blushing.

 

Erik decides to spare her prolonged embarrassment, even though he is _absolutely_ sure she deserves it. "So… about that Azazel story?"

 

Raven snorts. "Guy tried breaking into my apartment one night. Didn't know what he was dealing with. I broke a lamp over his head. Somehow that ended with us being buddies, and he introduced me to Janos. They obviously had talent and drive, so I pulled some strings and got them jobs as interns in the Department of Mutant Affairs. Not long before they became some of my top field men."

 

"Can't imagine Azazel doing anything different. He's a sucker for a pretty face."

 

Her cheeks flush dark blue, and Erik thinks back to the _Mutant and Proud_ poster. "Save that charm for Charles, Erik. Actually, he probably doesn't even need it. But I have a proposition for you and Emma." She folds her hands in a neat steeple, leaning in. "Even if what you did back there was reckless and stupid as _hell,_ it was brave, and you really showed some colour. I'd like for you to work with my department."

 

Emma's eyebrows furrow in thought. "I think… this is something I need to think on."

 

Erik squeezes Emma's hand. "I'm with her."

 

Raven stands, brushing invisible dust off of her blazer. "Take as much time as you need. Alright, Erik. I think you're a suitable suitor, but don't think I'm taking back what I said before about threats, I've still got the authority. Now, let's go reunite you with your long-lost love."


	14. Let's Talk About Feelings (Sort Of)

Raven stands, eyes fixed on the door. "Azazel, Janos, I know you're listening outside the door!" 

 

She makes her way to leave, and Erik follows in suit. Flinging back the door to her office, she finds Azazel and Janos. Janos looks sheepish, but Azazel has the audacity to wave. Raven snorts. "I guess I'll leave you two to show Erik the lab."

 

… 

 

The five make their way through the department, interns ogling them and scurrying away when Azazel shoots a grin in their direction. Moira is walking close to Emma, and Erik feels a certain satisfaction in the ease in Emma's shoulders.

 

Janos keeps his voice low, but he's excited. "So. You finished him?"

 

Erik nods stiffly. Shaw feels like something distant, with Charles so close. Janos' eyes are dry and neutral, and Erik can't imagine what his tunnel vision looked like from the outside. Maybe he'll ask Emma. "Emma got him where it hurts."

 

Azazel stifles a laugh, and the interns scatter. "Oh man. Please tell me she was in diamond form."

 

"Yup."

 

" _Shit._ "

 

Emma raises an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed never to speak of this again."

 

Janos laughs with ease, and Erik feels his heart swell because they're _here,_ and it doesn't matter that Shaw's dead, but it does matter that they're _okay,_ the four of them with their fires and their fury. They turned out just fine.

 

They reach the Henry Mccoy's lab, and Azazel gives them a sloppy two-fingered salute. "Safely delivered, as promised."

 

Janos gives them a dip of his head as Azazel rests a hand on his shoulder. "Well, Emma, Erik. I hope to see you working with us."

 

And in a dark cloud, the pair vanish.

… 

 

Henry Mccoy chats amiably with Moira about the inner workings of the collar lying dismantled on a steel table, and Charles is looking at Erik with something that _waits._ He's fiddling with the collar of his ( _Erik's)_ shirt, seemingly absentmindedly, but his eyes are on Erik, and when they take their leave, Charles has a hand pushing in the small of Erik's back.

 

Moira turns to Emma, and her hands are picking at the non-existent threads on the sleeves of her trench coat. "So… I guess I'll see you around?"

 

Emma smiles. It's not her small, dangerous smile, always backed by political connotations. It's wide and asymmetrical, and the shine in eyes has nothing to do with diamonds. "You can't get rid of me that easily. Besides," she inclines her head in Erik's direction. "I think the apartment belongs to those two tonight."

 

… 

 

Erik stumbles backwards into his apartment, Charles kissing him insistently. Hands are roaming, and the blood in Erik's ears is _roaring._ He drags his heels against the floor, toeing off his boots and shucking his leather jacket. Charles is _climbing_ him, pushing against his body with heat and shaking hands.

 

Erik can feel that shake, feel it down to his bones, and he wraps his hands around Charles'. Erik's mind is on a short fuse, but a part of him is saying _Hey, remember talking about feelings?_ He leans his head back, trying to put enough distance between him and the tongue licking at his mouth to be able to _vocalize_ , but Charles is using his balance to push him back and back and _back,_ back into the bedroom.

 

Erik can feel Charles' consciousness pushing against his own, clear and warm and _anticipating,_ and when the back of Erik's knees hit the edge of his bed, he windmills his arms and tries not to fall flat on his back.

 

Erik is perched tentatively on the edge of his bed, with Charles' palms resting on his chest. Charles is looking at him, curious and _searching,_ and there's enough distance between them that Erik can open his mouth for something other than a kiss.

 

"I think… we meant to talk?" It comes out unsteady, like Erik would rather skip the talking and continue with whatever Charles had planned to do with Erik lying on his back on a bed, but damn Charles, with his infinite amount of care, and Erik can't _not_ talk.

 

Charles inclines his head to the side, and runs a hand through Erik's hair. He's smiling his crooked little smile, and Erik lets himself lie down, Charles flopping over next to him. 

 

"I think we did." There's a quirk to Charles' mouth.

 

Erik furrows his brows a little, wondering exactly what it was he was so intent on _saying._ Charles is watching him, eyes bright and waiting.

 

"You matter to me."

 

Charles waits, looking on with a small smile and something _new._

 

Erik's words are coming slow, lagging in the thick air. "I want you to know that. That you matter." His tongue feels too big for his mouth, and something inside his chest is _aching._ "When we went looking, after you went missing, I wasn't looking for Shaw. I was looking for _you._ "

 

Charles' hand is rubbing a circle on Erik's stomach, warm and patient. He hasn't spoken yet, but he's meeting Erik's eyes with perfect confidence, and Erik is suddenly aware of his heart beating.

 

"Because you matter to me." Erik's repetition doesn't feel hollow. He feels like he's reiterating something very necessary, not only for Charles, but for himself. "I ended him, but it wasn't the end of _me._ It felt so small, because there were so many _other_ important things. And I didn't care about seeing him through, I just wanted you to be okay."

 

"Because I matter to you." Charles voice is _dripping,_ dripping with amusement and elation, dripping with that token _warmth,_ and with _heat._

 

"Yes." Erik could never click with words, never needed to, but Charles is crawling over him, smile spreading into a grin like _dynamite,_ and the pressure in Erik's chest blooms into something that _wants._ "I want-"

 

Charles is kissing him, his mouth a hot drag over Erik's, a curl of a smile against him. "You want?"

 

"I want to let you in. Into my head." Erik's voice comes out in a gasp as Charles' hands snake downwards, pulling at the last of his wits.

 

Charles pauses, eyes snapping up to meet Erik's. " _Erik._ "

 

Erik hoists himself up onto his elbows, intent on elaborating, but Charles' hands are holding his face, and he's kissing Erik _stupid,_ licking into Erik's mouth and not _stopping._ Erik's given up on coherency, and he wouldn't be surprised if his brain's dribbled all over his bedsheets. Charles is flush against him, hands travelling without a pattern and without shame. He sits up suddenly, eyes wicked and _sharp._

 

" _Erik._ You're wearing too many clothes."

 

Erik opens his mouth to reply, but he can hardly blink before Charles is burrowing his way under Erik's shirt, nudging it over his head and planting hickies with wet, _dirty_ noises. Charles' fingers move with purpose, making quick work of Erik's belt before demandingly tugging Erik's pants down his thighs.

 

Erik's hands are wrapped in his sheets, desperately trying to cling to something, _anything._ Charles is grinding against him, denim ( _Erik's_ jeans, fuck it all) against briefs, and Erik is completely powerless, reduced to moaning and curling his toes, babbling and pleading.

 

Charles is straddling him, arms caging Erik's head. "You're sure?"

 

" _Charles,_ what-"

 

"You want to let me in your head."

 

Erik groans, flinging an arm over his face. "Well, that's hardly a fair question, _considering the situation,_ I think I would do _anything_ you ask-"

 

" _Erik."_

 

"Yes. _Yes._ I'm sure."

 

And just like that, Erik can feel that dynamite smile, wide behind his eyelids, threatening to eat his heart whole.

 

…

 

There's an ancient house, filled with ghosts of ideas, and Erik's seeing the threads of them left behind through blue, _blue_ eyes. There's freshly cut grass and musty book pages, winding corridors and tall glass doors. There's emptiness in the air, in the smiles towering over him, but there's blue scales, white teeth flashing, grinning. Yellow eyes winking and red curls, sharing toothpaste and secrets, coveting each other's desserts and taking each other's blame.

 

There's a Cold War silo, but the metal is dull and quiet. There's a gunshot echo, the one that Erik's been hearing since he was ten, reverberating through benevolent smiles with cruel intentions. There's diamond hollows under bright, cold eyes, grubby fingernails and limp hair the colour of vaseline. There's an whisper of unabashed white eagerness inside his head from the other side of his thin cot, a reassuring heartbeat lulling him into uneasy dreams of setting Menorahs and buildings alight.

 

There's distant parents, family ripped away, and sisters found, Cold Oxford winters, a fire that can't, _won't_ wipe out that _smile._ Ties adjusted, collars clamped on. Bullseyes hit on bar dartboards and through people's skulls.

 

…

 

Everything is amplified inside of Erik's head. He can feel Charles' heart beating against his, Charles' hands dragging against his cock as he kisses him, kisses the noises from his mouth.

 

The back of Erik's head is pushed deep into his pillow, heat and colour winding through his cerebellum. There's a flood of _wantyouneedyou_ pushing insistently against his brain casing. Charles' mind is clear and strong and leaves a sweet taste on the roof of Erik's mouth, and Erik wants to stay like this, let Charles' pry the hidden parts of Erik's psyche open until he's inside out.

 

Charles is kissing him like he wants to crawl inside his mouth and stay there forever.

 


	15. Partners In Somewhat-Crime

Erik wakes up slowly, letting his toes uncurl and his thoughts fan out. Charles has a leg swung over Erik's hip and an arm flung across Erik's chest, and in his half-snoozing state, Erik can feel the threads of Charles' mind untangle from their haze as he beings to wake.

 

The bed looks _lived in_ , dishevelled sheets smoothing and creasing to accommodate Erik's presence and Charles' ridiculous pose. The familiar touch in the back of Erik's head is back, fond and waiting and _staying._ Eyes fuzzy with sleep, Erik can't exactly make out the time on his alarm clock, but he's beginning to register how _hungry_ he is.

 

When was the last time he _ate?_ Despite his protests, Emma had always insisted a decent cup of coffee was _not_ a meal, and his stomach was beginning to agree. Untangling his limbs from his dozing bed partner (not to mention partner in somewhat-crime), Erik makes to shower, feeling the grime and debris from the bombs thick on his skin.

 

But before he can escape his sheets, Charles makes a clumsy grab for his wrist, and the the warmth settled neatly in the back of Erik's mind unfurls from it's dormant state, reaching out to greet him.

 

"I don't think so, _Erik,_ the last time one of us left the bedroom, it led to a kidnapping. I think you're under obligation to stay here _forever._ I'll sic Raven on you if you try anything!"

 

Charles pulls himself up on his elbows, flopping over on Erik's chest with a wicked grin. 

 

Erik lets his head fall back into his pillow. "Funny, and I thought you would take up my offer of a shower and breakfast."

 

Charles wriggles up Erik's body, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Maybe."

 

…

 

The water is hot, and Charles' hands are slick. Erik's toes are curled against the floor of the tub, trying not to slip, as he pushes Charles up against the wall, kissing him deep and wet as water runs through his hair and into his eyes, blurring his vision.

 

Charles is _inside his head,_ and Erik feels heat down to his core as those threads of consciousness snake and weave through his grey matter, and Erik is ready to unhinge his skull cap and dump his brain in Charles' hands.

 

Charles' mouth is curving into the kiss, obscene and red under Erik's, and the water is pounding on Erik's back, the blood pounding in his ears.

 

Erik wraps his hands around Charles' cock, relishing the squeak of Charles' heels against the floor of the tub as he tries to hold his balance, digging his nails into Erik's back. Charles is scowling, needy, into Erik's mouth, and Erik just _eats it up._ His pace is slow, and Charles' feet are slipping. The nails dig deeper, and Erik hisses.

 

" _Erik, If you would just-_ " Charles voice is high and breaking, and the presence in Erik's mind is hot and sharp and having trouble staying _still._

 

 

Erik grins, licking a long stripe up the side of Charles' neck, feeling Charles' pulse under his tongue.

 

…

 

The folds and dips of the shower curtains are crisp in Erik's vision, Charles' leg wrapped over his waist. Charles' touch in his head is a _flood,_ incoherent and intoxicating, and Erik can't get enough. His name is hanging on Charles' lips like a mantra, still oddly emphasized in his usual pattern of speech, still holding Erik captive. Erik pushes, takes, but it feels like giving, feels like _home,_ and Charles' hands are finding his own and _holding._

 

Erik's orgasm is heat and sparks behind his eyelids, their bodies flush, Charles' name clawing it's way up his throat with a sob, and Charles kissing him still with a shaking mouth.

 

The water has long run cold, but Erik's skin feels red and clean, and any traces of him left lingering in the shadow of a Cold War Silo, under the thumb of a monster masquerading as a man, are gone, and Erik feels _home._

 

…

 

Charles is staring at Erik across the dining table for one, which roughly translates to being a mere foot and a few breakable dishes from Erik kissing him. He's wearing this big, goofy smile and a big, goofy cardigan, elbow patches and all, fingers absentmindedly circling knots in the wood of the table. Erik's heart is in his throat, and he knows what he would say if Emma fixed him with those all-seeing eyes of hers, and popped her eternal question ("Erik, are you happy?").

 

 

 

So Erik blushes and stares down at his toast, paying unnecessary attention to the art of spreading jam, but the kettle is boiling (when did he even _buy_ a kettle?), and Charles is making his way over to the stove to fix himself a cup of tea. He let's his hand trail along Erik's shoulder as he does so, planting a kiss on his temple, and Erik _melts._

 

It's all ridiculously, sickeningly domestic. Erik watches as Charles rifles through the drawers for a spoon, gently putting aside a good amount of Erik's knife collection.

 

"You really need a better place to keep these." Charles smirks, finally picking up a spoon dainty enough to suit his tea-related needs. He has to settle for a mug for his cup of Earl Grey, but Erik's already planning to call Emma to go shopping for some nice china. English, probably. Erik didn't know much about China, but he heard that Royal Doulton was a nice make, even if they named one of their dinner sets after _Gordon Ramsey,_ of all people-

 

"You're projecting, love."

 

Erik freezes sheepishly, but Charles is laughing, and it's all so _easy-_

 

"I prefer antique pick and mix shopping myself, and I don't limit myself to helping myself to a few nice pieces during my nighttime exploits, you wouldn't _believe_ how many art collectors happen to have a great eye for china."

 

Erik finds himself smiling, warmth crawling up his chest and loosening the knot in his throat. Everything feels _good,_ being here, with Charles at his side. Together, he's never felt safer, and he's more whole than he thought he ever could be, after _everything,_ and it hardly registers when he stands, breakfast forgotten, and kisses Charles against the counter, mug of tea held at a safe distance. Charles is smiling, small, crooked, _red,_ and Erik wants everything to stay just like this, easy and _close._

 

…

 

Emma coughs, somewhere in their heads.

 

 _I'm coming up, if you two aren't…_ occupied. _I brought a real breakfast, too. Knowing Erik, he's living off of stale bread and black coffee. Charles, for your sake, I hope you get him to incorporate regular mealtimes with_ actual _food into his life._

 

The pair snap out of their reverie, sly grins and laughter and small kisses as they pry themselves off of each other, straightening collars and smoothing shirts as they await Emma's arrival.

 


	16. Gordon Ramsey's Gross Face

Emma drops a cake box filled with assorted pastries onto the middle of the table unceremoniously. 

 

"I wouldn't go for Royal Doulton, Erik. The Gordon Ramsey set has his _face_ plastered all over the packaging. It's all worthy of boycotting, really." She delicately selects a scone as she sits down.

 

Erik groans. "I could _not_ have been projecting that much."

 

Emma rolls her eyes at Charles, who _giggles_. "You'd be surprised."

 

Psychics and their damn inside jokes.

 

Erik would love to have a snide remark ready, but his stomach is complaining something awful, and the baked goods are singing to him more than the cutlery, although Erik sincerely hopes there's no metal involved in the cherry cheese danish he's currently inhaling.

 

…

 

Charles' foot is pressed against Erik's as the three bump elbows, fighting over food and chatting casually, like whatever showdown happened yesterday was hardly anything worth mentioning. Erik's chest _aches,_ and it feels right _,_ feels _good,_ knowing that the people he cares for are _happy,_ and he's beginning to understand why Emma always pestered him with that _one_ question.

 

Erik prods Emma's side. "So, where's Moira? I mean, when I _last_ saw you two, I had the impression that you were planning to spend the night-"

 

Emma carbonizes herself, and Erik winces as his prodding finger gets a punishing. "I assure you, _we did._ And as amusing as it would be to send you visuals, like you did with your _tawdry little elevator adventure-"_ Emma waggles her eyebrows at Charles, and Erik can't believe that him accidentally scarring Emma during their Big Showdown is the only event of yesterday they're talking about, but Charles is blushing. So there's that. "-It's beneath me to be so petty."

 

Erik smirks. "You're too kind. But you're still not answering my question, Emma."

 

"I must confess, I was also wondering about Moira's whereabouts. Did your brand of debauchery leave her too tired to even _stand,_ let alone make her way to Erik's apartment?" Charles chimes in, and fuck yes, that's amazing, even Erik knows from experience that he'll never beat Emma at _anything._ Even if he has his all-powerful psychic boyfriend on his side. But at least Charles is siding with him, so.

 

Emma makes a face. "It's all fine and dandy that you have faith in my sexual prowess, Charles, but unlike some of us, Moira has an _actual nine-to-five job_ and a boss that she answers to. Not saying that my debauchery _didn't_ make her unable to even get out of bed, but seeing as I'm the only one who seems to understand the 'food-equals-fuel' equation around here-no, Erik, coffee does _not_ count- a good breakfast did the trick."

 

"It's true. I probably wouldn't be here today if Raven hadn't forcefully fed me throughout my university days."

 

Emma raises an eyebrow, interested. "Are we getting an inkling of an actual backstory here? I'm sure you and Erik had fun playing in each other's heads last night, but I'm still a tad in the dark about you, criminal partnership, psychic link, or no."

 

Charles sips at his tea. "Raven's my oldest friend, the reason I first used my powers, for something _real._ I convinced my parents they'd had a daughter."

 

Erik rests a hand on Charles' thigh and squeezes, staying quiet as he talks. Erik's _bubbling over._ He can't imagine what he's ever done to find himself a Charles Xavier, giving art to the public, adopting awesome blue little girls, and being able to have normal conversations with Emma Frost without hiding under the table because she's _Emma Fucking Frost: Better Than Your Favourites,_ all while wearing elbow patches, because he's _Charles Fucking Xavier._

 

Erik blinks, and Emma's staring at him, amused, and her voice is soft. "Thanks for the compliments, but if you don't stop projecting, all that sticky sweetness might actually send all psychics within a 50 foot radius into a diabetes-induced coma. You'd be surprised, but we can use _words._ "

 

Charles laughs, easy and affectionate as Erik blushes, because between Emma and Charles, he really has no dignity left at _all,_ but that's just fine with Erik.

 

"Speaking of Raven, she had an interesting offer for Erik and I the other day. She wants us working for her department. We told her we'd think about it."

 

Charles sets down his mug. "Do the boys upstairs at the CIA know about your telepathy?"

 

"I haven't told them. I imagine it would cause problems."

 

Charles steeples his fingers. "It did for me. I help Raven out whenever I can with my academic work, but even if the government has given formal, political approval of Mutants, it doesn't mean they're comfortable with the ones capable of having power over them, regardless of their moral compass."

 

Erik stretches his legs out. "Moira says the original purpose of the department was for dealing with Mutant threats. Her and Raven seem to have other ideas."

 

"Moira always talks about protecting and serving displaced and at-risk Mutants in the country. The department seems to have their heads in the right place, but if _this_ is a standard hiring policy, they must be seriously understaffed." Emma comments, nails tapping on the tabletop as she thinks.

 

Charles nods. "Raven's had problems with funding and staff many times in the past. She has full access to her inheritance from the Xavier Foundation, but they still need agents."

 

Emma and Erik exchange looks. Charles places his hand over Erik's, resting on his leg.

 

"I'm not sure, Emma. I'm… I'm happy doing this. I don't know if I can do straight and narrow, not anymore."

 

Emma smiles, small and wry, and Erik sees the scrawny girl that never grew up, but built herself. "Looks like it's your turn to be the outside consultant, then. I could use one of those if life on the straight and narrow proves too constricting."

 

Charles' hand is warm over his own, and Erik feels _happy._

 

Emma must be able to feel it, because her nails aren't tapping anymore, and her hands are still. Her gaze isn't flickering back and forth, isn't looking for something she might need to help her; help her fight, help her run, help her hide. She's in tune with Erik's mood, relaxed, at home, _content,_ and Erik can't fathom when anything was more important to him.

 


	17. Emma On the Straight and Narrow

Erik and Charles are lounging on the couch, watching _Criminal Minds_ and exchanging notes. They finally found time to install the Shaw Box (Erik is _not_ willing to analyze the irony of the company name). Erik's got a series recording going for _Criminal Minds,_ and he's very pleased with himself.

 

Moira, Raven, Azazel, and Janos have set themselves up on the new Ikea dinner table, paperwork and coffee mugs strewn over the much more generous space. Charles has his his legs flung over Erik's lap, and he's pouting at Raven.

 

"You know, you _could_ set up your communal office space at our _humongous mansion_ in Westchester. Much more wall space for making those big boards connecting all your clues, or whatever it is you agent-types do. _And_ there'd be the added bonus of me getting uninterrupted cuddly time with my boyfriend. Everybody wins!"

 

"If we worked in Westchester, we couldn't do food runs. Besides, you guys have cable, and Erik should never be associated with the words 'cuddly time'." Raven sticks out her tongue. 

 

"Well, since you're so mature and all," Charles gestures to Raven's expression. "you _could_ learn how to cook-"

 

"But speaking of food runs, the rookie's back!" Azazel grins, making grabby hands at the takeout boxes in Emma's hands as she comes through the door.

 

Emma glowers. "I may be the rookie, but don't think for a second I'm getting you lot food for any reason other than the infinite kindness in my heart, asshole."

 

Erik sighs into the crown of Charles' head. He never imagined his quiet, Brooklyn studio apartment could be home. Not for him, not for _anyone._ But here it was, full of love, laughter, and Ikea furniture built for more than one.

 

Emma gives Moira a quick peck on the cheek as she hands her her food, before making her way over to the couch. She rummages through her white Furla shoulder bag, pulling out a neatly wrapped package and dumping it on Charles' lap. She looks suspiciously smug.

 

"Since you seem to be redecorating, I got you two a little something. Sorry, they didn't come in utility belt friendly sizes."

 

…

 

" _Bert and Ernie_ mugs?" Erik stares at the ceramic cup in his hand, as Emma crows, gleefully.

 

"For coffee _or_ tea. I think they'll look lovely next to your knife collection."

 

Raven smirks at Charles from the table as he observes his counterpart to Erik's mug. "Let me guess who's who."

 

Charles ignores his sister, smiling at Emma. "Well, _I_ love them."

 

…

 

Erik is nineteen, lounging on the couch of the Chicago boardwalk penthouse Emma obtained for them (with a trick or two). Emma has her legs flung across his lap as she paints her toenails. Her mascara is clumpy and her makeup is cakey, immaturely applied like a little girl playing with her mother's rouge. Erik's fidgety, frustrated. The pair can get anything they want, with Emma's abilities, but Erik's _restless._ There's anger inside him, growing and waiting, and his skill set is too _specific._

 

The apartment has little furniture, besides the couch and a the coffee table. Erik still sleeps in Emma's bed, pushed into the corner of their too-big bedroom. They love each other, but they're not _in_ love.

 

Emma tucks a stray curl of hair behind her ear. "Did you ever imagine that we'd turn out okay?"

 

Erik shakes his head. "No. But I think we did better than okay, don't you? For a couple of kids, I mean."

 

Emma elbows him in the side. "I'm not a kid."

 

Erik sighs. "I need something to keep me occupied, Emma."

 

"Like a job? You don't _need_ it. I can get us anything we want."

 

"It's not about the money. It's about everything else. I'm angry, Emma. I'm angry and helpless without you, and I need to _do_ something. Something that'll get us closer to Shaw. Something that'll take out people like him."

 

"Like some kind of vigilante hit man?" Emma sniffs. "You'll need a point woman. I'm not going to let you have all the fun."

 

Erik grins. "I like the sound of that."

 

"Excellent!" Emma jumps abruptly off the sofa, narrowly avoiding kicking Erik in the face. "Because I got you a little something." She plucks the tissue out of a Ted Baker bag, looking suspiciously smug as she holds up a brown leather jacket. "It's very professional."

 

"I should get a utility belt, too." Erik jokes.

 

Emma snorts.

 

…

 

Erik leans against his balcony rails, wrapped up in Charles' sweater ( _Elbow. Patches._ they've grown on him, damn it all) and sipping coffee from his new favourite mug (there was no point denying it). The others are inside, listening attentively (or worriedly, in Charles' case) as Raven talks about all the features on her new motorcycle, gesturing wildly.

 

Emma quietly makes her way to Erik's side, tucking a stray curl of hair behind her ear. "Did you ever imagine it would be like this? That we'd turn out okay?"

 

Erik shakes his head. "Not once. I wasn't thinking about a lot of things, really. But we did better than okay, don't you think?" Erik inclines his head towards the group of people clustered inside his apartment. He remembers believing in the weakness of companionship, imagining his relationships as trip wires, as he'd been taught by the one person he'd been fighting not to be.

 

Emma's unique touch brushes his mind, and Erik senses a smile. She grabs his hand, and the action is so familiar, so natural, and it feels like home. "I think we made out like bandits."

 

"So you're happy, then?"

 

Emma rests her head on Erik's shoulder. "Very. And you?"

 

"I think you already know the answer to that question."

 

"I know that you're allergic to smiles and feelings and all that, but it doesn't mean you can't say it out loud."

 

"My smile happens to strike fear into the hearts of this country's biggest and baddest, _thank you very much._ But yeah. I'm happy. Not just with what happened with Shaw, but with everything. Azazel and Janos are living out their lives, You've found a job you love, a girl you can call your equal, I've found _Charles-_ "

 

The warm spot dormant in the back of Erik's head, Charles' touch, spreads a bit, and Charles meets Erik's eyes from the other side of the sliding door, smiling over Raven's shoulder. Erik loses his train of thought.

 

Emma rolls her eyes. "Good Lord, you've been _domesticated._ Look at you, smiling like a mong and talking about your _feelings._ " Her tone is affectionate.

 

"Yeah, we're thinking of buying some houseplants. Maybe a dog. Adopting some adorable orphans."

 

Emma snorts, guiding Erik back inside. "Ikea furniture not challenging enough to care for?"

 

…

 

Erik's a busy guy. Clients, targets, late nights, and a steady stream of black coffee. Sometimes he comes home to an empty apartment and cold coffee dregs, but he's never been less afraid of being alone. Not when he can wrap himself in a sweater ( _elbow patches_ ) flung haphazardly over the arm of the sofa, put two K Cups in the Keurig (coffee _and_ tea. The machine is a miracle.), and feel Emma and Charles in the back of his head, absentmindedly present as they go about their days. The machine beeps, and there's the sound of the window unlatching.

 

Erik returns from the kitchen, bearing the infamous Bert and Ernie mugs (with as much dignity as can be mustered in the presence of the damn things), and Charles is lounging on the sofa, painting resting on the dining table.

 

He makes a delighted noise in the back of his throat when Erik passes him his tea.

 

"You're a godsend."

 

Erik stopped being afraid of solitude before he admitted he feared it. He finds the time frame of it all to be embarrassing. Emma shrugged when he had told her. "We're all works in progress", she had said, examining her nails with her usual devil-may-care poise, but her touch in his head was a small, but sharp, pleased thing, child-like in it's eagerness, and Erik knows too much about her to ever forget her desperate gaze, just strong enough, before she built herself anew.

 

"Nice sweater, by the way." Charles grins. Erik snaps out of his reverie, and he instinctively wants to pull the sweater closer, hold on tooth and nail. He's a work in progress, but he lets himself smile as Charles leans against him, the natural action not taken into consideration, not examined. It is merely acted out.

 

"Not as nice as your utility belt."

 

Charles smirks fondly. "Touché."

 


End file.
